^J"  " 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 


THOMAS  MOORE.— 1779-1852. 


LALLA  ROOKH  appeared  in  1817,  and  in  it  the 
world  found  a  poem  sui  generis:  and  they  were 
not  elow  in  showing  their  appreciation  of  it.  It 
was  in  every  one's  hands — upon  every  one's  lips. 
Learned  men  and  Oriental  travellers  bore  testi- 
mony, not  only  to  its  historical  correctness,  but 
to  the  fidelity  and  beauty  of  its  scenic  descrip- 
tions. The  original  went  through  seven  editions 
within  a  year,  found  its  way  through  the  world, 
and  was  soon  translated  into  every  language. 
"There  are,"  said  Jeffrey,  in  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
"passages,  indeed,  and  these  neither  few  nor 
brief,  over  which  the  very  genius  of  poetry  seems 
to  have  breathed  his  richest  enchantment — where 
the  melody  of  the  verse  and  the  beauty  of  the 
images  conspire  so  harmoniously  with  the  force 
and  tenderness  of  the  emotion,  that  the  whole  is 
blended  into  one  deep  and  bright  stream  of  sweet- 
ness and  feeling,  along  which  the  spirit  of  the 
reader  is  borne  passively  away  through  long 
reaches  of  delight." 


Copyright.  1899.  l.y  Henry  Altr 


<rt% 


.ALLA  ROOKM 


PHILADELPHIA 

ALTENUS  COMPANY 


College 
Library 


50E4 
1.  15 


CONTENTS. 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE g 

LALLA   ROOKH 2$ 

THE  VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN  „    .  33 

PARADISE  AND  THE  PERI lz^ 

THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS 152 

THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM 239 


AUTHOR'S   PREFACE. 

\Written  originally  for  "  Lalla  Rookh  n  in  the  col" 
lected  edition  of  Moore's  works, ,] 


THE  Poem,  or  Romance,  of  "  Lalla  Rookh  n 
having  now  reached,  I  understand,  its  twentieth 
edition,  a  short  account  of  the  origin  and  progress 
of  a  work  which  has  been  hitherto  so  very  unfortu- 
nate in  its  course  may  not  be  deemed,  perhaps, 
superfluous  or  misplaced. 

It  was  about  the  year  1812,  that,  far  more  through 
the  encouraging  suggestions  of  friends  than  from 
any  confident  promptings  of  my  own  ambition,  I 
conceived  the  design  of  writing  a  Poem  upon  some 
Oriental  subject,  and  of  those  quarto  dimensions 
which  Scott's  successful  publications  in  that  form 
had  then  rendered  the  regular  poetical  standard.  A 
negotiation  on  the  subject  was  opened  with  the 
Messrs.  Longman  in  the  same  year ;  but,  from 
some  causes  which  I  cannot  now  recollect,  led  to 
no  decisive  result ;  nor  was  it  until  a  year  or  two 
after,  that  any  further  steps  were  taken  in  the  mat- 
ter, —  their  house  being  the  only  one,  it  is  right  to 
add,  with  which,  from  first  to  last,  I  held  any  com- 
munication upon  the  subject. 

On  this  last  occasion,  Mr.  Perry  kindly  offered 

9 


IO  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 

himself  as  my  representative  in  the  treaty;  and, 
what  with  the  friendly  zeal  of  my  negotiator  on  the 
one  side,  and  the  prompt  and  liberal  spirit  with 
which  he  was  met  on  the  other,  there  has  seldom, 
I  think,  occurred  any  transaction  in  which  Trade 
and  Poesy  have  shone  out  so  advantageously  in  each 
other's  eyes.  The  short  discussion  that  then  took 
place,  between  the  two  parties,  may  be  comprised 
in  a  very  few  sentences.  "  I  am  of  opinion,"  said 
Mr.  Perry,  —  enforcing  his  view  of  the  case  by 
arguments  which  it  is  not  for  me  to  cite,  —  "  that 
Mr.  Moore  ought  to  receive  for  his  poem  the  lar- 
gest price  that  has  been  given,  in  our  day,  for  such  a 
work."  "That  was,"  answered  the  Messrs.  Long- 
man, "  three  thousand  guineas."  "  Exactly  so," 
replied  Mr.  Perry,  "  and  no  less  a  sum  ought  he  to 
receive." 

It  was  then  objected,  and  very  reasonably,  on  the 
part  of  the  firm,  that  they  had  never  yet  seen  a 
single  line  of  the  Poem ;  and  that  a  perusal  of  the 
work  ought  to  be  allowed  to  them,  before  they  em- 
barked so  large  a  sum  in  the  purchase.  But,  no ; 
—  the  romantic  view  which  my  friend  Perry  took  of 
the  matter  was,  that  this  price  should  be  given  as  a 
tribute  to  reputation  already  acquired,  without  any 
condition  for  a  previous  perusal  of  the  new  work. 
This  high  tone,  I  must  confess,  not  a  little  startled 
and  alarmed  me ;  but  to  the  honor  and  glory  of 
Romance  —  as  well  on  the  publishers1  side  as  the 
poet's, —  this  very  generous  view  of  the  transaction 


AUTHORS  PREFACE.  II 

was,  without  any  difficulty,  acceded  to,  and  the  firm 
agreed,  before  we  separated,  that  I  was  to  receive 
three  thousand  guineas  for  my  Poem. 

At  the  time  of  this  agreement,  but  little  of  the 
work,  as  it  stands  at  present,  had  yet  been  written. 
But  the  ready  confidence  in  my  success  shown  by 
others  made  up  for  the  deficiency  of  that  requisite 
feeling  within  myself;  while  a  strong  desire  not 
wholly  to  disappoint  this  "  auguring  hope  "  became 
almost  a  substitute  for  inspiration.  In  the  year 

1815,  therefore,  having  made  some  progress  in  my 
task,  I  wrote  to  report  the  state  of  the  work  to  the 
Messrs.   Longman,  adding,    that  I  was  now  most 
willing  and  ready,  should  they  desire  it,  to  submit 
the    manuscript    for    their    consideration.      Their 
answer  to  this  offer  was  as  follows:  "We  are  cer- 
tainly impatient  for  the  perusal  of  the  Poem ;  but 
solely  for  our  gratification.     Your  sentiments  are 
always  honorable." 

I  continued  to  pursue  my  task  for  another  year, 
being  likewise  occasionally  occupied  with  the  "  Irish 
Melodies,"  two  or  three  numbers  of  which  made 
their  appearance  during  the  period  employed  in 
writing  "  Lalla  Rookh."  At  length,  in  the  year 

1816,  I  found  my  work  sufficiently  advanced  to  be 
placed  in  the  hands  of  the  publishers.    But  the  state 
of  distress  to  which  England  was  reduced,  in  that 
dismal  year,  by  the  exhausting  effects  of  the  series 
of  wars  she  had  just  then  concluded,  and  the  general 
embarrassment  of  all  classes  both  agricultural  and 


12  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 

commercial,  rendered  it  a  juncture  the  least  favor- 
able that  could  well  be  conceived  for  the  first  launch 
into  print  of  so  light  and  costly  a  venture  as  "  Lalla 
Rookh."  Feeling  conscious,  therefore,  that  under 
such  circumstances  I  should  act  but  honestly  in  put- 
ting it  in  the  power  of  the  Messrs.  Longman  to 
reconsider  the  terms  of  their  engagement  with  me, 

—  leaving  them  free  to  postpone,  modify,  or  even, 
should  such  be  their  wish,  relinquish  it  altogether, 

—  I  wrote  them  a  letter  to  that  effect,  and  recshed 
the  following  answer:  "We  shall  be  most  happy 
in  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  in  February.   We  agree 
with  you,  indeed,  that  the  times  are  most  inauspi- 
cious for  '  poetry  and  thousands ; '  but  we  believe 
that  your  poetry  would  do  more  than   that  of  any 
other  living  poet  at  the  present  moment." 

The  length  of  time  I  employed  in  writing  the  few 
stories  strung  together  in  "Lalla  Rookh"  will 
appear,  to  some  persons,  much  more  than  was  ne- 
cessary for  the  production  of  such  easy  and  "  light  o' 
love  "  fictions.  But,  besides  that  I  have  been,  at  all 
times,  a  far  more  slow  and  painstaking  workman 
than  would  ever  be  guessed,  I  fear,  from  the  result, 
I  felt  that  in  this  instance  I  had  taken  upon  myself 
a  more  than  ordinary  responsibility,  from  the  im- 
mense stake  risked  by  others  on  my  chance  of  suc- 
cess. For  a  long  time,  therefore,  after  the  agree- 
ment had  been  concluded,  though  generally  at  work 
-with  a  view  to  this  task,  I  made  but  very  little  real 
progress  in  it ;  and  I  have  still  by  me  the  begin- 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE.  13 

nings  of  several  stories  continued,  some  of  them,  to 
the  length  of  three  or  four  hundred  lines,  which, 
after  in  vain  endeavoring  to  mould  them  into  shape, 
I  threw  aside,  like  the  tale  of  Cambuscan,  "left 
half-told."  One  of  these  stories,  entitled  "The 
Peri's  Daughter,"  was  meant  to  relate  the  loves  of  a 
nymph  of  this  aerial  extraction  with  a  youth  of  mor- 
tal race,  the  rightful  Prince  of  Ormuz,  who  had 
been,  from  his  infancy,  brought  up  in  seclusion  on 
the  banks  of  the  river  Amou,  by  an  aged  guardian 
named  Mohassan.  The  story  opens  with  the  first 
meeting  of  these  destined  lovers,  then  in  their  child- 
hood ;  the  Peri  having  wafted  her  daughter  to  this 
holy  retreat,  in  a  bright,  enchanted  boat,  whose 
first  appearance  is  thus  described :  — 


For,  down  the  silvery  tide  afar, 
There  came  a  boat,  as  swift  and  bright, 

As  shines,  in  heaven,  some  pilgrim-star, 
That  leaves  its  own  high  home,  at  night, 
To  shoot  to  distant  shrines  of  light. 

'  It  comes,  it  comes,'  young  Orian  cries, 
And  panting  to  Mohassan  flies. 
Then,  down  upon  the  flowery  grass 
Reclines  to  see  the  vision  pass ; 
With  partly  joy  and  partly  fear, 
To  End  its  wondrous  light  so  near, 


14  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 

And  hiding  oft  his  dazzled  eyes 
Among  the  flowers  on  which  he  lies. 


Within  the  boat  a  baby  slept, 

Like  a  young  pearl  within  its  shell ; 
While  one,  who  seem'd  of  riper  years, 
But  not  of  earth,  or  earth-like  spheres, 

Her  watch  beside  the  slumbercr  kept; 

Gracefully  waving,  in  her  hand, 
The  feathers  of  some  holy  bird, 
With  which,  from  time  to  time,  she  stirr'd 

The  fragrant  air,  and  coolly  fann'd 

The  baby's  brow,  or  brush'd  away 
The  butterflies  that,  bright  and  blue 

As  on  the  mountains  of  Malay, 
Around  the  sleeping  infant  flew. 

And  now  the  fairy  boat  hath  stopp'd 
Beside  the  bank,  —  the  nymph  has  dropp'd 
Her  golden  anchor  in  the  stream. 


A  song  is  sung  by  the  Peri  in  approaching,  of 
which  the  following  forms  a  part :  — 

My  child  she  is  but  half  divine, 

Her  father  sleeps  in  the  Caspian  water; 

Sea-weeds  twine 

His  funeral  shrine, 
But  he  lives  again  in  the  Peri's  daughter. 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE.  15 

Fain  would  I  fly  from  mortal  sight 

To  my  own  sweet  bowers  of  Peristan ; 
But  there,  the  flowers  are  all  too  bright 
For  the  eyes  of  a  baby  born  of  man. 
On  flowers  of  earth  her  feet  must  tread  ; 

So  hither  my  light-wing'd  bark  hath  brought  her; 
Stranger,  spread 
Thy  leafiest  bed, 
To  rest  the  wandering  Peri's  daughter. 

In  another  of  these  inchoate  fragments,  a  proud 
female  saint,  named  Banou,  plays  a  principal  part ; 
and  her  progress  through  the  streets  of  Cufa,  on  the 
night  of  a  great  illuminated  festival,  I  find  thus  de- 
scribed :  — 

It  was  a  scene  of  mirth  that  drew 

A  smile  from  even  the  Saint  Banou, 

As,  through  the  hush'd  admiring  throng, 

She  went  with  stately  steps  along, 

And  counted  o'er,  that  all  might  see, 

The  rubies  of  her  rosary. 

But  none  might  see  the  worldly  smile 

That  lurk'd  beneath  her  veil  the  while  :  — 

Alia,  forbid  !  for,  who  would  wait 

Her  blessing  at  the  temple's  gate,  — 

What  holy  man  would  ever  run 

To  kiss  the  ground  she  knelt  upon, 

If  once,  by  luckless  chance,  he  knew 

She  look'd  and  smiled  as  others  do  ? 

Her  hands  were  join'd,  and  from  each  wrist 

By  threads  of  pearl  and  golden  twist 


1 6  AUTHOR'S  f-REFACE. 

Hung  relics  of  the  saints  of  yore, 
And  scraps  of  talismanic  lore,  — 
Charms  for  the  old,  the  sick,  the  frail, 
Some  made  for  use,  and  all  for  sale. 
On  either  side,  the  crowd  withdrew, 
To  let  the  Saint  pass  proudly  through; 
While  turban 'd  heads  of  every  hue, 
Green,  white,  and  crimson,  bow'd  around, 
And  gay  tiaras  touched  the  ground,  — 
As  tulip-bells,  when  o'er  their  beds 
The  musk-wind  passes,  bend  their  heads. 
Nay,  some  there  were,  among  the  crowd 
Of  Moslem  heads  that  round  her  bow'd, 
So  fiil'd  with  zeal  by  many  a  draught 
Of  Shiraz  wine  profanely  quaff 'd, 
That,  sinking  low  in  reverence  then, 
They  never  rose  till  morn  again. 

There  are  yet  two  more  of  these  unfinished 
sketches,  one  of  which  extends  to  a  much  greater 
length  than  I  was  aware  of;  and,  as  far  as  I  can 
judge  from  a  hasty  renewal  of  my  acquaintance  with 
it,  is  not  incapable  of  being  yet  turned  to  account. 

In  only  one  of  these  unfinished  sketches,  the  tale 
of  "The  Peri's  Daughter,"  had  I  yet  ventured  to 
invoke  that  most  home-felt  of  all  my  inspirations, 
which  has  lent  to  the  story  of  "  The  Fire-Wor- 
shippers "  its  main  attraction  and  interest.  That  it 
was  my  intention,  in  the  concealed  Prince  of  Ormuz, 
to  shadow  out  some  impersonation  of  this  feeling, 
I  take  for  granted  from  the  prophetic  words  sup- 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE.  1 7 

posed  to  be  addressed  to  him  by  his  aged  guard- 
ian: — 

Bright  child  of  destiny !  even  now 
I  read  the  promise  on  that  brow, 
That  tyrants  shall  no  more  defile 
The  glories  of  the  Green  Sea  Isle, 
But  Ormuz  shall  again  be  free, 
And  hail  her  native  Lord  in  thee  I 

In  none  of  the  other  fragments  do  I  find  any  trace 
of  this  sort  of  feeling,  either  in  the  subject  or  the 
personages  of  the  intended  story ;  and  this  was 
the  reason,  doubtless,  though  hardly  known,  at  the 
time,  to  myself,  that,  finding  my  subjects  so  slow 
in  kindling  my  own  sympathies,  I  began  to  despair 
of  their  ever  touching  the  hearts  of  others ;  and  felt 
often  inclined  to  say :  — 

"  Oh  no,  I  have  no  voice  or  hand 
For  such  a  song  in  such  a  land." 

Had  this  series  of  disheartening  experiments  been 
carried  on  much  further,  I  must  have  thrown  aside 
the  work  in  despair.  But  at  last,  fortunately,  as  it 
proved,  the  thought  occurred  to  me  of  founding  a 
story  on  the  fierce  struggle  so  long  maintained 
between  the  Ghebers  l  or  ancient  Fire- Worshippers 
of  Persia,  and  their  haughty  Moslem  masters.  From 

1  Voltaire,  in  his  tragedy  of "  Les  Guebres,"  written  with  a  similar 
under-current  of  meaning,  was  accused  of  having  transformed  his 
Fire- Worshippers  into  Jansenists.  "  Quelques  figuristes,"he  says, 
"pretendeot  que  les  Guebies  sont  les  Jansenistes." 


1 8  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE, 

that  moment,  a  new  and  deep  interest  in  my  whole 
task  took  possession  of  me.  The  cause  of  tolerance 
was  again  my  inspiring  theme  ;  and  the  spirit  that 
had  spoken  in  the  melodies  of  Ireland  soon  found 
Itself  at  home  in  the  East. 

Having  thus  laid  open  the  secrets  of  the  workshop 
to  account  for  the  time  expended  in  writing  this 
work,  I  must  also,  in  justice  to  my  own  industry, 
notice  the  pains  I  took  in  long  and  laboriously  read- 
ing for  it.  To  form  a  storehouse,  as  it  were,  of 
illustration  purely  Oriental,  and  so  familiarize  my- 
self with  its  various  treasures,  that,  as  quick  as 
Fancy  required  the  aid  of  fact,  in  herspiritings,  the 
memory  was  ready,  like  another  Ariel,  at  her 
"  strong  bidding,"  to  furnish  materials  for  the  spell- 
work,  —  such  was,  for  a  long  while,  the  sole  object 
of  my  studies  ;  and  whatever  time  and  trouble  this 
preparatory  process  may  have  cost  me,  the  effects 
resulting  from  it,  as  far  as  the  humble  merit  of  truth- 
fulness is  concerned,  have  been  such  as  to  repay  me 
more  than  sufficiently  for  my  pains.  I  have  not 
forgotten  how  great  was  my  pleasure,  when  told  by 
the  late  Sir  James  Mackintosh  that  he  was  once 

asked  by  Colonel  W s,  the  historian  of  British 

India,  "  whether  it  was  true  that  Moore  had  never 
been  in  the  East? "  "  Never,"  answered  Mackintosh. 

"  Well,  that  shows  me,"  replied  Colonel  W s, 

•'  that  reading  over  D'Herbelot  is  as  good  as  riding 
on  the  back  of  a  camel." 

I  need  hardly  subjoin  to  this  lively  speech,  that, 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE.  1 9 

although  D'Herbelot's  valuable  work  was,  of  course, 
one  of  my  manuals,  I  took  the  whole  range  of  all 
such  Oriental  reading  as  was  accessible  to  me ;  and 
became,  for  the  time,  indeed,  far  more  conversant 
with  all  relating  to  that  distant  region,  than  I  have 
ever  "been  with  the  scenery,  productions,  or  modes 
of  life  of  any  of  those  countries  lying  most  within 
my  reach.  We  know  that  D'Anville,  though  never 
in  his  life  out  of  Paris,  was  able  to  correct  a  num- 
ber of  errors  in  a  plan  of  the  Troad  taken  by  De 
Choiseul,  on  the  spot ;  and  for  my  own  very  differ- 
ent, as  well  as  far  inferior,  purposes,  the  knowledge 
I  had  thus  acquired  of  distant  localities,  seen  only  by 
me  in  my  day-dreams,  was  no  less  ready  and  useful. 

An  ample  reward  for  all  this  painstaking  has  been 
found  in  such  welcome  tributes  as  I  have  just  now 
cited ;  nor  can  I  deny  myself  the  gratification  of 
citing  a  few  more  of  the  same  description.  From 
another  distinguished  authority  on  Eastern  subjects, 
the  late  Sir  John  Malcolm,  I  had  myself  the  pleas- 
ure of  hearing  a  similar  opinion  publicly  expressed ; 
—  that  eminent  person,  in  a  speech  spoken  by  him 
at  a  Literary  Fund  Dinner,  having  remarked,  that, 
together  with  those  qualities  of  a  poet  which  he 
much  too  partially  assigned  to  me,  was  combined 
also  "  the  truth  of  the  historian." 

Sir  William  Ouseley,  another  high  authority,  in 
giving  his  testimony  to  the  same  effect,  thus  notices 
an  exception  to  the  general  accuracy  for  which  he 
gives  me  credit :  "  Dazzled  by  the  beauties  of  this 


2O  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 

composition  ["The  Fire  Worshippers  "] ,  few  readers 
can  perceive,  and  none  surely  can  regret,  that  the 
poet,  in  his  magnificent  catastrophe,  has  forgotten, 
or  boldly  and  most  happily  violated,  the  precept  of 
Zoroaster,  above  noticed,  which  held  it  impious  to 
consume  any  portion  of  a  human  body  by  fire,  espe- 
cially by  that  which  glowed  upon  their  altars." 
Having  long  lost,  I  fear,  most  of  my  Eastern  learn- 
ing, I  can  only  cite,  in  defence  of  my  catastrophe, 
an  old  Oriental  tradition,  which  relates  that  Nimrod, 
when  Abraham  refused,  at  his  command,  to  wor- 
ship the  fire,  ordered  him  to  be  thrown  into  the 
midst  of  the  flames.1  A  precedent  so  ancient  for 
this  sort  of  use  of  the  worshipped  element  would 
appear,  for  all  the  purposes  at  least  of  poetry,  fully 
sufficient. 

In  addition  to  these  agreeable  testimonies,  I  have 
also  heard,  and  need  hardly  add,  with  some  pride 
and  pleasure,  that  parts  of  this  work  have  been 
rendered  into  Persian,  and  have  found  their  way 
to  Ispahan.  To  this  fact,  as  I  am  willing  to  think 
it,  allusion  is  made  in  some  lively  verses,  written 
many  years  since,  by  my  friend,  Mr.  Luttrell :  — 

"  I'm  told,  dear  Moore,  your  lays  are  sung, 

(Gin  it  be  true,  you  lucky  man?) 
By  moonlight,  in  the  Persian  tongue, 
Along  the  streets  of  Ispahan." 

'  "Tradunt  autem  Hebnei  hanc  fabulam,  quod  Abraham  ia 
ignem  missus  sit,  quia  ignera  adorare  noluit."  —  ST.  HIBRON,  in 
Qua  it  in  Gentsim. 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE.  21 

That  some  knowledge  of  the  work  may  have  really 
reached  that  region  appears  not  improbable  from  a 
passage  in  the  "  Travels  "  of  Mr.  Frazer,  who  says, 
that  "  being  delayed  for  some  time  at  a  town  on  the 
shores  of  the  Caspian,  he  was  lucky  enough  to  be 
able  to  amuse  himself  with  a  copy  of  '  Lalla  Rookh,' 
which  a  Persian  had  lent  him." 

Of  the  description  of  Balbec,  in  "  Paradise  and 
the  Peri,"  Mr.  Came,  in  his  "  Letters  from  the  East," 
thus  speaks:  "The  description  in  *  Lalla  Rookh' 
of  the  plain  and  its  ruins  is  exquisitely  faithful.  The 
minaret  is  on  the  declivity  near  at  hand,  and  there 
wanted  only  the  muezzin's  cry  to  break  the  silence." 

I  shall  now  tax  my  reader's  patience  with  but  one 
more  of  these  generous  vouchers.  Whatever  of 
vanity  there  may  be  in  citing  such  tributes,  they 
show,  at  least,  of  what  great  value,  even  in  poetry, 
is  that  prosaic  quality,  industry  ;  since,  as  the  reader 
of  the  foregoing  pages  is  now  fully  apprised,  it  was 
in  a  slow  and  laborious  collection  of  small  facts, 
that  the  first  foundations  of  this  fanciful  Romance 
were  laid. 

The  friendly  testimony  I  have  just  referred  to  ap- 
peared, some  years  since,  in  the  form  in  which  I 
now  give  it,  and,  if  I  recollect  right,  in  the  Athe- 
nceum :  — 

"  I  embrace  this  opportunity  of  bearing  my  indi- 
vidual testimony  (if  it  be  of  any  value)  to  the 
extraordinary  accuracy  of  Mr.  Moore,  in  his  topo- 
graphical, antiquarian,  and  characteristic  details. 


22  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 

whether  of  costume,  minners,  or  less  changing 
monuments,  both  in  his  •  Lalla  Rookh1  and  in  •  The 
Epicurean.1  It  has  been  my  fortune  to  read  his 
Atlantic,  Bermudean,  and  American  Odes  and  Epis- 
tles, in  the  countries  and  among  the  people  to  which 
and  to  whom  they  related ;  I  enjoyed  also  the  ex- 
quisite delight  of  reading  his  '  Lalla  Rookh '  in  Per- 
sia itself;  and  I  have  perused  '  The  Epicurean1 
while  all  my  recollections  of  Egypt  and  its  still 
existing  wonders  are  as  fresh  as  when  I  quitted  the 
banks  of  the  Nile  for  Arabia  :  —  I  owe  it,  therefore, 
as  a  debt  of^ratitude  (though  the  payment  is  most 
inadequate),  for  the  great  pleasure  I  have  derived 
from  his  productions,  to  bear  my  humble  testimony 
to  their  local  fidelity.  —  J.  S.  B." 

Among  the  incidents  connected  with  this  work, 
I  must  not  omit  to  notice  the  splendid  Divertisse- 
ment, founded  upon  it,  which  was  acted  at  the  Cha- 
teau Royal  of  Berlin,  during  the  visit  of  the  Grand 
Duke  Nicholas  to  that  capital,  in  the  year  1822. 
The  different  stories  composing  the  work  were  rep- 
resented in  Tableaux  Vivans  and  songs  ;  and  among 
the  crowd  of  royal  and  noble  personages  engaged 
in  the  performances,  I  shall  mention  those  dnly  who 
represented  the  principal  characters,  and  whom  I 
find  thus  enumerated  in  the  published  account  cf 
the  Divertissement, l 

1  "  Lalla  Rmikh,  Divertissement  mile"  de  Chants  et  de  Danses." 
Berlin,  1822.  The  work  contains  a  series  of  colored  engraving*, 
representing  groups,  processions,  etc.,  in  different  Oriental  cos- 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE.  2$ 

Fadladin,  Grand- Nasir     .     .     .     Comte Haack(Marichal  de  Cmtr\ 
Aliris,  Roi  de  Bucharie    .     .     .    S.  A.  T.  le  Grand-Due. 
Lalla  Roukh S.  A.  I.  la  Grande-Duchesse. 

Aurungieb,  le  Grand  Mogol        j  S'/£re*H  £<,,f  """  G*Ulaufta' 
Abdallah,  P4re  d' Aliris    .     .     .     S.  A .  R.  le  Due  de  Cumberland. 
La  Reine,  so:i  Spouse  .     .     .       \S.  A.R.la  Pr^tceiu Lou 


Besides  these  and  other  leading  personages,  there 
were  also  brought  into  action,  under  the  various  de- 
nominations of  Seigneurs  et  Dames  de  Bucharie, 
Dames  de  Cachemirc,  Seigneurs  et  Dames  dansans 
a  la  fete  des  Roses,  etc.,  nearly  one  hundred  and 
fifty  persons. 

Of  the  manner  and  style  in  which  the  Tableaux 
of  the  different  stories  are  described  in  the  work 
from  which  I  cite,  the  following  account  of  the  per- 
formance of  "  Paradise  and  the  Peri "  will  afford 
some  specimen :  — 

"  La  decoration  reprdsentoit  les  portes  brillantes 
du  Paradis,  entoure"es  de  nuages.  Dans  le  premier 
tableau  on  voyoit  la  P6ri,  triste  et  d£sol6e,  couch6e 
sur  le  seuil  des  portes  ferme"es,  et  TAnge  de  lumiere 
qui  lui  adresse  des  consolations  et  desconseils.  Le 
secand  repre"sente  le  moment  ou  la  P6ri,  dans  Tes- 
poir  que  ce  don  lui  ouvrira  l'entr£e  du  Paradis,  re- 
cueille  la  derniere  goutte  de  sang  que  vient  de  verser 
le  jeune  guerrier  indien.  .  .  . 

"  La  Pdri  et  TAnge  de  lumiere  r6pondoient  pieine- 
ment  a  Timage  et  a  1'idee  qu'on  est  tcnt^  de  se  faire 
de  ces  deux  individus,  et  Timpression  qu'a  faite  g£- 
n^ralenient  la  suite  des  tableaux  decet  6pisode  d61i- 


24  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 

cat  et  int£ressant  est  loin  de  s'effacer  de  notre 
souvenir.1" 

In  this  grand  file,  it  appears,  originated  the 
translation  of  "  Lalla  Rookh  "  into  German  l 
verse,  by  the  Baron  de  la  Motte  Fouqu6  ;  and 
the  circumstances  which  led  him  to  undertake  the 
task  are  described  by  himself  in  a  Dedicatory  Poem 
to  the  Empress  of  Russia,  which  he  has  prefixed  to 
his  translation.  As  soon  as  the  performance,  he 
tells  us,  had  ended,  Lalla  Rookh  (the  Empress  hep- 
self)  exclaimed,  with  a  sigh,  ••  Is  it,  then,  all  over? 
Are  we  now  at  the  close  of  all  that  has  given  us  so 
much  delight?  and  lives  there  no  poet  who  will 
impart  to  others,  and  to  future  times,  some  notion 
of  the  happiness  we  have  enjoyed  this  evening?" 
On  hearing  this  appeal,  a  Knight  of  Cashmere  (who 
b  no  other  than  the  poetical  Baron  himself)  comes 
forward  and  promises  to  attempt  to  present  to  the 
world  "  the  Poem  itself  in  the  measure  of  the  origi- 
nal : "  —  whereupon  Lalla  Rookh,  it  is  added,  approv- 
ingly smiled. 

1  Since  this  was  written,  another  translation  of  "  Lalla  Rookh  " 
into  German  verse  has  been  made  by  Thcodor  Oelckers  (Leipzig. 
Taudmiu). 


LALLA    ROOKH. 


IN  the  eleventh  year  of  the  reign  of  Aurungzebe, 
Abdalla,  King  of  the  Lesser  Bucharia,  a  lineal 
descendant  from  the  Great  Zingis,  having  abdi- 
cated the  throne  in  favor  of  his  son,  set  out  on  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  Shrine  of  the  Prophet ;  and  pass- 
ing into  India  through  the  delightful  valley  of  Cash- 
mere, rested  for  a  short  ti«e  at  Delhi  on  his  way. 
He  was  entertained  by  Aurungzebe  in  a  style  of 
magnificent  hospitality,  worthy  alike  of  the  visitor 
and  the  host,  and  was  afterwards  escorted  with  the 
same  splendor  to  Surat,  where  he  embarked  for 
Arabia.  During  the  stay  of  the  Royal  Pilgrim  at 
Delhi,  a  marriage  was  agreed  upon  between  the 
Prince,  his  son,  and  the  youngest  daughter  of  the 
Emperor,  Lalla  Rookh  ;  —  a  Princess  described  by 
the  poets  of  her  time  as  more  beautiful  than  Leila, 
Shirine,  Dewilde,  or  any  of  those  heroines  whose 
names  and  loves  embellish  the  songs  of  Persia  and 
Hindostan.  It  was  intended  that  the  nuptials 
should  be  celebrated  at  Cashmere ;  where  the 
young  King,  as  soon  as  the  cares  of  empire  would 
permit,  was  to  meet,  for  the  first  time,  his  lovely 
25 


26  LALLA   ROOKIf. 

bride,  and,  after  a  few  months'  repose  in  that 
enchanting  valley,  conduct  her  over  the  snowy  hills 
into  Bucharia. 

The  day  of  Lalla  Rookh's  departure  from  Delhi 
was  as  splendid  as  sunshine  and  pageantry  could 
make  it.  The  bazaars  and  baths  were  all  covered 
with  the  richest  tapestry ;  hundreds  of  gilded 
barges  upon  the  Jumna  floated  with  their  banners 
shining  in  the  water ;  while  through  the  streets 
groups  of  beautiful  children  went  strewing  the  most 
delicious  flowers  around,  as  in  that  Persian  festival 
called  the  Scattering  of  the  Roses ;  till  every  part 
of  the  city  r,-as  as  fragrant  as  if  a  caravan  of  musk 
from  Khoten  ^ad  passed  through  it.  The  Princess, 
having  taken  leave  of  her  kind  father  (who  at  part- 
ing hung  a  cornelian  of  Yemen  round  her  neck,  on 
which  was  inscribed  a  verse  from  the  Koran)  and 
having  sent  a  considerable  present  to  the  Fakirs, 
who  kept  up  the  Perpetual  Lamp  in  her  sister's 
tomb,  meekly  ascended  the  palankeen  prepared  for 
her;  and,  while  Aurungzebe  stood  to  take  a  last 
look  from  his  balcony,  the  procession  moved  slowly 
on  the  road  to  Lahore. 

Seldom  had  the  Eastern  world  seen  a  cavalcade 
so  superb.  From  the  gardens  in  the  suburbs  to 
the  Imperial  palace,  it  was  one  unbroken  line  of 
splendor.  The  gallant  appearance  of  the  Rajahs 
and  Mogul  Lords,  distinguished  by  those  insignia 
of  the  Emperor's  favor,  the  feathers  of  the  egret  of 
Cashmere  in  their  turbans,  and  the  small  silver* 


LALLA   ROOKIL  2J 

rimmed  kettledrums  at  the  bows  of  their  saddles ; 
—  the  costly  armor  of  their  cavaliers,  who  vied, 
on  this  occasion,  with  the  guards  of  the  great  Keder 
Khan,  in  the  brightness  of  their  silver  battle-axes 
and  the  massiness  of  their  maces  of  gold ;  —  the 
glittering  of  the  gilt  pine-apples  on  the  tops  of  the 
palankeens  ;  —  the  embroidered  trappings  of  the 
elephants,  bearing  on  their  backs  small  turrets  in 
the  shape  of  little  antique  temples,  within  which 
the  Ladies  of  Lalla  Rookh  lay  as  it  were  enshrined  ; 
. —  the  rose-colored  veils  of  the  Princess's  own 
sumptuous  litter,  at  the  front  of  which  a  fair  young 
female  slave  sat  fanning  her  through  the  curtains, 
with  feathers  of  the  Argus  pheasant's  wing  ;  —  and 
the  lovely  troop  of  Tartarian  and  Cashmerian  maids 
of  honor,  whom  the  young  King  had  sent  to  accom- 
pany his  bride,  and  who  rode  on  each  side  of  the 
litter,  upon  small  Arabian  horses ;  —  all  was  bril- 
liant, tasteful,  and  magnificent,  and  pleased  even  the 
critical  and  fastidious  Fadladeen,  Great  Nazir  or 
Chamberlain  of  the  Haram,  who  was  borne  in  his 
palankeen  immediately  after  the  Princess,  and  con- 
sidered himself  not  the  least  important  personage 
of  the  pageant. 

Fadladeen  was  a  judge  of  everything,  —  from  the 
pencilling  of  a  Circassian's  eyelids  to  the  deepest 
questions  of  science,  and  literature  ;  from  the  mix- 
ture of  a  conserve  of  rose-leaves  to  the  composition 
of  an  epic  poem ;  and  such  influence  had  his  opin- 
ion upon  the  various  tastes  of  the  day,  that  all  the 


23  LALLA   KOOK'IL 

cooks  and  poets  of  Delhi  stood  in  awe  of  him.  His 
political  conduct  and  opinions  were  founded  upon 
that  line  of  Sadi,  —  "  Should  the  Prince  at  noon-clay 
say,  It  is  night,  declare  that  you  behold  the  moon 
and  stars.1"  —  And  his  zeal  for  religion,  of  which  Au- 
rungzebe  was  a  munificent  protector,  was  about  as 
disinterested  as  that  of  the  goldsmith  who  fell  in 
love  with  the  diamond  eyes  of  the  Idol  of  Jagher- 
naut. 

During  the  first  days  of  their  journey,  Lalla 
Rookh,  who  had  passed  all  her  life  within  the 
shadow  of  the  Royal  Gardens  at  Delhi,  found 
enough  in  the  beauty  of  the  scenery  thrpugh  which 
they  passed  to  interest  her  mind  and  delight  her 
imagination ;  and  when  at  evening  or  in  the  heat 
of  the  day,  they  turned  off  from  the  high  road  to 
those  retired  and  romantic  places  which  had  been 
selected  for  her  encampments,  sometimes  on  the 
banks  of  a  small  rivulet,  as  clear  as  the  waters  of 
the  Lake  of  Pearl ;  sometimes  under  the  sacred 
shade  of  a  Banyan  tree,  from  which  the  view 
opened  upon  a  glade  covered  with  antelopes ;  and 
often  in  those  hidden,  embowered  spots,  described 
by  one  from  the  Isles  of  the  West,  as  "  places  of 
melancholy,  delight,  and  safety,  where  all  the  com- 
pany around  were  wild  peacocks  and  turtle-doves  ;  " 
—  she  felt  a  charm  in  these  scenes,  so  lovely  and  so 
new  to  her,  which,  for  a  time,  made  her  indifferent 
to  every  other  amusement.  But  Lalla  Rookh  was 
young,  and  the  young  love  variety ;  nor  could  the 


LALLA   ROOKH.  2$ 

conversation  of  her  Ladies  and  the  Great  Cham- 
berlain Fadladeen  (the  only  persons,  of  course,  ad- 
mitted to  her  pavilion)  sufficiently  enliven  those 
many  vacant  hours,  which  were  devoted  neither  to 
the  pillow  nor  the  palankeen.  There  was  a  little 
Persian  slave  who  sung  sweetly  to  the  Vina,  and 
who,  now  and  then,  lulled  the  Princess  to  sleep  with 
the  ancient  ditties  of  her  country,  about  the  loves 
of  Wamak  and  Ezra,  the  fair-haired  Zal  and  his 
mistress  Rodahver;  not  forgetting  the  combat  of 
Rustam  with  the  terrible  White  Demon.  At  other 
times  she  was  amused  by  those  graceful  dancing- 
girls  of  Delhi,  who  had  been  permitted  by  the 
Bramins  of  the  Great  Pagoda  to  attend  her,  much 
to  the  horror  of  the  good  Mussulman  Fadladeen, 
who  could  see  nothing  graceful  or  agreeable  in  idol- 
aters, and  to  whom  the  very  tinkling  of  their  golden 
anklets  was  an  abomination. 

But  these  and  many  other  diversions  were  re- 
peated till  they  lost  all  their  charm,  and  the  nights 
and  noon-days  were  beginning  to  move  heavily, 
when,  at  length,  it  was  recollected  that  among  the 
attendants  sent  by  the  bridegroom,  was  a  young  poet 
of  Cashmere,  much  celebrated  throughout  the  val- 
ley for  his  manner  of  reciting  the  stories  of  the 
East,  on  whom  his  Royal  Master  had  conferred 
the  privilege  of  being  admitted  to  the  pavilion  of  the 
Princess,  that  he  might  help  to  beguile  the  tedious- 
ness  of  the  journey  by  some  of  his  most  agreeable 
recitals.  At  the  mention  of  the  poet,  Fadladeen 


3O  LALLA  ROOK'H. 

elevated  his  critical  eyebrows,  and  having  refreshed 
his  faculties  with  a  dose  of  that  delicious  opium 
which  is  distilled  from  the  black  poppy  of  the 
Thebais,  gave  orders  for  the  minstrel  to  be  forth- 
with introduced  into  the  presence. 

The  Princess,  who  had  once  in  her  life  seen  a 
poet  from  behind  the  screens  of  gauze  in  her 
Father's  hall,  and  had  conceived  from  that  speci- 
men no  very  favorable  ideas  of  the  Caste,  expected 
but  little  in  this  new  exhibition  to  interest  her ;  — 
she  felt  inclined,  however,  to  alter  her  opinion  on 
the  very  first  appearance  of  Feramorz.  He  was  a 
youth  about  Lalla  Rookh's  own  age,  and  graceful 
as  that  idol  of  women,  Crishna,  —  such  as  he  ap- 
pears to  their  young  imaginations,  heroic,  beautiful, 
breathing  music  from  his  very  eyes,  and  exalting 
the  religion  of  his  worshippers  into  love.  His  dress 
was  simple,  yet  not  without  some  marks  of  costli- 
ness ;  and  the  ladies  of  the  Princess  were  not  long 
in  discovering  that  the  cloth  which  encircled  his 
high  Tartarian  cap  was  of  the  most  delicate  kind 
that  the  shawl-goats  of  Tibet  supply.  Here  and 
there,  too,  over  his  vest,  which  was  confined  by  a 
flowered  girdle  of  Kashan,  hung  strings  of  fine 
pearl,  disposed  with  an  air  of  studied  negligence ; 
—  nor  did  the  exquisite  embroidery  of  his  sandals 
escape  the  observation  of  these  fair  critics ;  who, 
however  they  might  give  way  to  Fadladeen  upon 
the  unimportant  topics  of  religion  and  govern- 
ment, had  the  spirit  of  martyrs  in  everything  re- 


LALLA   ROOK'IL  3! 

lating  to  such  momentous  matters  as  jewels  and 
embroidery. 

For  the  purpose  of  relieving  the  pauses  of  reci- 
tation by  music,  the  young  Cashmerian  held  in  his 
hand  a  guitar  —  such  as,  in  old  times,  the  Arab 
maids  of  the  West  used  to  listen  to  by  moonlight 
in  the  gardens  of  the  Alhambra;  —  and  having 
premised,  with  much  humility,  that  the  story  he  was 
about  to  relate  was  founded  on  the  adventures  of 
that  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan  who,  in  the  year 
of  the  Hegira  163,  created  such  alarm  throughout 
the  Eastern  Empire,  made  an  obeisance  to  the 
Princess,  and  thus  began. 


THE 
VEILED   PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN. 


IN  that  delightful  Province  of  the  Sun, 
The  first  of  Persian  lands  he  shines  upon, 
Where  all  the  loveliest  children  of  his  beam, 
Flowerets  and  fruits,  blush  over  every  stream, 
And  fairest  of  all  streams,  the  Murga  roves 
Among  Merou's  bright  palaces  and  groves,  — 
There  on  that  throne,  to  which  the  blind  belief 
Of  millions  raised  him,  sat  the  Prophet-Chief, 
The  Great  Mokanna.     O'er  his  features  hung 
The  Veil,  the  Silver  Veil,  which  he  had  flung 
In  mercy  there,  to  hide  from  mortal  sight 
His  dazzling  brow,  till  man  could  bear  its  light. 
For,  far  less  luminous,  his  vojtaries  said, 
Were  even  the  gleams,  miraculously  shed 
O'er  Moussa's  cheek,  when  down  the  Mount  he  trod/ 
All  glowing  from  the  presence  of  his  God ! 

On  either  side,  with  ready  hearts  and  hands, 
His  chosen  guard  of  bold  Believers  stands  ; 
Young  fire-eyed  disputants,  who  deem  their  swords, 
On  points  of  faith,  more  eloquent  than  words  ; 
And  such  their  zeal,  there's  not  a  youth  with  brand 

33 


34  LALLA  ROOKH. 

Uplifted  there,  but,  at  the  Chiefs  command, 
Would  make  his  own  devoted  heart  its  sheath, 
And  bless  the  lips  that  doom'd  so  dear  a  death ! 
In  hatred  to  the  Caliph's  hue  of  night, 
Their  vesture,  helms  and  all,  is  snowy  white ; 
Their  weapons  various  —  some  equipp'd,  for  speed, 
With  javelins  of  the  light  Kathaian  reed  ; 
Or  bows  of  buffalo-horn  and  shining  quivers 
Fill'd  with  the  stems  that  bloom  on  Iran's  rivers; 
While  some,  for  war's  more  terrible  attacks, 
Wield  the  huge  mace  and  ponderous  battle-axe ; 
And  as  they  wave  aloft  in  morning's  beam 
The  milk-white  plumage  of  their  helms,  they  seem 
Like  a  chenar-tree  grove,  when  Winter  throws 
O'er  all  its  tufted  heads  his  feathering  snows. 

Between  the  porphyry  pillars,  that  uphold 
The  rich  moresque-work  of  the  roof  of  gold, 
Aloft  the  Karam's  curtain'd  galleries  rise, 
Where,  through  the  silken  network,  glancing  eyes, 
From  time  to  time,  like  sudden  gleams  that  glow 
Through  autumn  clouds,  shine  o'er  the  pomp  below. 
What  impious  tongue,  ye  blushing  saints,  would 

dare 
To  hint  that  aught  but   Heaven  hath  placed  you 

there  ? 

Or  that  the  loves  of  this  light  worfd  could  bind, 
In  their  gross  chain,  your  Prophet's  soaring  mind  ? 
No  —  wrongful  thought!  —  commission'd  from  above 
To  people  Eden's  bowers  with  shapes  of  love, 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  A'ffOR  ASSAM.     ^ 

(Creatures  so  bright,  that  the  same  lips  and  eyes 
They  wear  on  earth  will  serve  in  Paradise,) 
There  to  recline  among  Heaven's  native  maids, 
And  crown  the  Elect  with  bliss  that  never  fades  — 
Well  hath  the  Prophet-Chief  his  bidding  done  ; 
And  every  beauteous  race  beneath  the  sun, 
From  those  who  kneel  at  Brahma's  burning  founts, 
To   the    fresh    nymphs     bounding    o'er    Yemen's 

mounts ; 

From  Persia's  eyes  of  full  and  fawn-like  ray 
To  the  small,  half-shut  glances  of  Kathay; 
And  Georgia's  bloom,  and  Azab's  darker  smiles, 
And  the  gold  ringlets  of  the  Western  Isles  ; 
All,  all  are  there  ;  —  each  Land  its  flower  hath  given, 
To  form  that  fair  young  Nursery  for  heaven ! 

But  why  this  pageant  now  ?  this  arm'd  array  ? 
What  triumph  crowds  the  rich  Divan  to-day 
With  turban'd  heads,  of  every  hue  and  race, 
Bowing  before  that  veil'd  and  awful  face, 
Like  tulip-beds,  of  different  shape  and  dyes, 
Bending  beneath  the  invisible  West-wind's  sighs  ? 
What  new-made  mystery  now,  for  Faith  to  sign, 
And  blood  to  seal,  as  genuine  and  divine, 
What  dazzling  mimickry  of  God's  own  power 
Hath  the  bold  Prophet  plann'd  to  grace  this  hour? 

Not  such  the  pageant  now,  though  not  less  proud  ; 
Yon  warrior  youth,  advancing  from  the  crowd, 


36  LALLA   ROOKH. 

With  silver  bow,  with  belt  of  broider'd  crape, 
And  fur-bound  bonnet  of  Buchanan  shape, 
So  fiercely  beautiful  in  form  and  eye, 
Like  war's  wild  planet  in  a  summer  sky,  — 
That  youth  to-day  —  a  proselyte,  worth  hordes 
Of  cooler  spirits  and  less  practised  swords  — 
Is  come  to  join,  all  bravery  and  belief, 
The  creed  and  standard  of  the  heaven-sent  Chief. 

Though  few  his  years,  the  West  already  knows 
Young  Azim's  fame ;  —  beyond  the  Olympian  snows, 
Ere  manhood  darken'd  o'er  his  downy  cheek, 
O'erwhelm'd  in  fight  and  captive  to  the  Greek, 
He  linger'd  there,  till  peace  dissolved  his  chains;  — 
Oh,  who  could,  even  in  bondage,  tread  the  plains 
Of  glorious  Greece,  nor  feel  his  spirit  rise 
Kindling  within  him?  who,  with  heart  and  eyes, 
Could  walk  where  Liberty  had  been,  nor  see 
The  shining  footprints  of  her  Deity, 
Nor  feel  those  godlike  breathings  in  the  air, 
Which  mutely  told  her  spirit  had  been  there? 
Not  he,  that  youthful  warrior, —  no,  too  well 
For  his  soul's  quiet  work'd  the  awakening  spell ; 
And  now,  returning  to  his  own  dear  land. 
Full  of  those  dreams  of  good  that,  vainly  grand. 
Haunt  the  young  heart,  —  proud  views  of  human- 
kind, 

Of  men  to  gods  exalted  and  refined,  — 
False  views,  like  that  horizon's  fair  deceit. 
Where  earth  and  heaven  but  seem,  alas,  to  meet !  — 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     37 

Soon  as  he  heard  an  Arm  Divine  was  raised 
To  right  the  nations,  and  beheld,  emblazed 
On  the  white  flag  Mokanna's  host  unfurl'd, 
Those  words  of  sunshine,  "  Freedom  to  the  World," 
At  once  his  faith,  his  sword,  his  soul  obey'd 
The  inspiring  summons  ;  every  chosen  blade 
That  fought  beneath  that  banner's  sacred  text 
Seem'd  doubly  edged,  for  this  world  and  the  next ; 
And   ne'er    did  Faith  with    her  smooth  bandage 

bind 

Eyes  more  devoutly  willing  to  be  blind, 
In  virtue's  cause  ;  —  never  was  soul  inspired 
With  livelier  trust  in  what  it  most  desired, 
Than  his,  the  enthusiast  there,  who  kneeling,  pale 
With  pious  awe,  before  that  Silver  Veil, 
Believes  the  form,  to  which  he  bends  his  knee, 
Some  pure,  redeeming  angel,  sent  to  free 
This  fetter'd  world  from  every  bond  and  stain, 
And  bring  its  primal  glories  back  again ! 

Low  as  young  Azim  knelt,  that  motley  crowd 
Of  all  earth's  nations  sunk  the  knee  and  bow'd, 
With  shouts  of  "  Alia !  "  echoing  long  and  loud ; 
While  high  in  air,  above  the  Prophet's  head, 
Hundreds  of  banners,  to  the  sunbeam  spread, 
Waved,  like  the  wings  of  the  white  birds  that  fan 
The  flying  throne  of  star-taught  Soliman. 
Then  thus  he  spoke  :  —  "  Stranger,  though  new  the 

frame 

Thy  soul  inhabits  now,  I've  tracked  its  flam« 
B 


38  LALLA   ROOKIt. 

For  many  an  age,  in  every  chance  and  change 
Of  that  existence,  through  whose  varied  range,  — 
As  through  a  torch-race  where,  from  hand  to  hand, 
The  flying  youths  transmit  their  shining  brand, — 
From  frame  to  frame  the  unextinguish'd  soul 
Rapidly  passes,  till  it  reach  the  goal ! 

"  Nor  think  'tis  only  the  gross  Spirits,  warm'd 
With  duskier  fire  and  for  earth's  medium  form'd, 
That  run  this  course ;  —  Beings  the  most  divine 
Thus  deign  through  dark  mortality  to  shine. 
Such  was  the  Essence  that  in  Adam  dwelt, 
To  which  all  Heaven,  except  the  Proud  One,  knelt : 
Such  the  refined  Intelligence  that  glow'd 
In  Moussa's  frame,  —  and,  thence  descending,  flow'd 
Through  many  a  Prophet's  breast ;  —  in  Issa  shone, 
And  in  Mohammed  burn'd  ;  till,  hastening  on, 
(As  a  bright  river  that,  from  fall  to  fall 
In  many  a  maze  descending,  bright  through  all. 
Finds  some  fair  region  where,  each  labyrinth  past, 
In.  one  full  lake  of  light  it  rests  at  last ! ) 
That  Holy  Spirit,  settling  calm  and  free 
From  lapse  or  shadow,  centres  all  in  me ! " 

Again,  throughout  the  assembly,  at  these  words. 
Thousands  of  voices  rung :  the  warriors'  swords 
Were  pointed  up  to  heaven ;  a  sudden  wind 
In  the  open  banners  play'd,  and  from  behind 
Those  Persian  hangings  that  but  ill  could  screen 
The  Haram's  loveliness,  white  hands  were  seen 


VEILED   PROPHET  OF  KIIORASSAN.     39 

Waving  embroiclerd  scarves,  whose  motion  gave 
A  perfume  forth  ;  —  like  those  the  Houris  wave 
When  beckoning  to  their  bowers  the  immortal  Brave, 

"But  these,"  pursued  the  Chief,  "  are  truths  sub- 
lime, 

That  claim  a  holier  mood  and  calmer  time 
Than  earth  allows  us  now  ;  —  this  sword  must  first 
The  darkling  prison-house  of  Mankind  burst, 
Ere  Peace  can  visit  them,  or  Truth  let  in 
Her  wakening  daylight  on  a  world  of  sin. 
But  then,  celestial  warriors,  then,  when  all 
Earth's  shrines  and  thrones  before  our  banner  fall  \ 
When  the  glad  Slave  shall  at  these  feet  lay  down 
His  broken  chain,  the  tyrant  Lord  his  crown, 
The  Priest  his  book,  the  Conqueror  his  wreath, 
And  from  the  lips  of  Truth  one  mighty  breath 
Shall,  like  a  whirlwind,  scatter  in  its  breeze 
That  whole  dark  pile  of  human  mockeries  ;  — 
Then  shall  the  reign  of  Mind  commence  on  earth, 
And  starting  fresh,  as  from  a  second  birth, 
Man,  in  the  sunshine  of  the  world's  new  spring, 
Shall  walk  transparent,  like  some  holy  thing! 
Then,  too,  your  Prophet  from  his  angel  brow 
Shall  cast  the  Veil  that  hides  its  splendors  now, 
And  gladden'd    Earth    shall,    through    her    wide 

expanse; 

Bask  in  the  glories  of  this  countenance  ! 
For  thee,  young  warrior,  welcome  !  —  thou  hast  yet 
Some  tasks  to  learn,  some  frailties  to  forget, 


40  LALLA   ROOK'H. 

Ere  the  white  war-plume  o'er  thy  brow  can  wave  ;  — 
But,  once  mine  own,  mine  all  till  in  the  grave ! " 

The  pomp  is  at  an  end  —  the  crowds  are  gone  — 
Each  ear  and  heart  still  haunted  by  the  tone 
Of  that  deep  voice,  which  thrill'd  like  Alla's  own  ! 
The  Young  all  dazzled  by  the  plumes  and  lances, 
The  glittering    throne,   and    Haram's    half-caught 

glances : 

The  Old  deep  pondering  on  the  promised  reign 
Of  peace  and  truth  ;  and  all  the  female  train 
Ready  to  risk  their  eyes,  could  they  but  gaze 
A  moment  on  that  brow's  miraculous  blaze  ! 

But  there  was  one,  among  the  chosen  maids. 
Who  blush'd  behind  the  gallery's  silken  shades, 
One,  to  whose  soul  the  pageant  of  to-day 
Has  been  like  death  ;  —  you  saw  her  pale  dismay, 
Ye  wandering  sisterhood,  and  heard  the  burst 
Of  exclamation  from  her  lips,  when  first 
She  saw  that  youth,  too  well,  too  dearly  known, 
Silently  kneeling  at  the  Prophet's  throne. 

Ah,  Zelica!  there  -was  a  time,  when  bliss 
Shone  o'er  thine  heart  from  every  look  of  his  ; 
When  but  to  see  him,  hear  him,  breathe  the  air 
In  which  he  dwelt,  was  thy  soul's  fondest  prayer; 
When  round  him  hung  such  a  perpetual  spell, 
Whate'er  he  did  none  ever  did  so  well. 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     4! 

Too  happy  days  !  when,  if  he  touch 'd  a  flower 

Or  gem  of  thine,  'twas  saored  from  that  hour; 

When  thou  didst  study  him  till  every  tone 

And  gesture  and  dear  look  became  thine  own,  — 

Thy  voice  like  his,  the  changes  of  his  face 

In  thine  reflected  with  still  lovelier  grace  : 

Like  echo,  sending  back  sweet  music,  fraught 

With  twice  the  aerial  sweetness  it  had  brought! 

Yet  now  he  comes,  —  brighter  than  even  he 

E'er  beam'd    before,  —  but  ah !    not    bright    for 

thee; 

No  —  dread,  unlook'd  for,  like  a  visitant 
From  the  other  world,  he  comes  as  if  to  haunt 
Thy  guilty  soul  with  dreams  of  lost  delight, 
Long  lost  to  all  but  memory's  aching  sight;  — 
Sad  dreams  !  as  when  the  Spirit  of  our  Youth 
Returns  in  sleep,  sparkling  with  all  the  truth 
And  innocence  once  ours,  and  leads  us  back, 
In  mournful  mockery,  o'er  the  shining  track 
Of  our  young  life,  and  points  out  every  ray 
Of  hope  and  peace  we've  lost  upon  the  way ! 

Once  happy  pair !  —  in  proud  Bokhara's  groves, 
Who  had  not  heard  of  their  first  youthful  loves? 
Born  by  that  ancient  flood,  which  from  its  spring 
In  the  Dark  Mountains  swiftly  wandering, 
Enrich'd  by  every  pilgrim  brook  that  shines 
With  relics  from  Bucharia's  ruby  mines, 
And  lending  to  the  Caspian  half  its  strength, 
In  the  cold  Lake  of  Eagles  sinks  at  length ;  — 


42  LALLA  ROOKff. 

There,  on  the  banks  of  thai  bright  river  born, 
t  The  flowers  that  hung  above  its  wave  at  morn 
Bless'd  not  the  waters,  as  they  murmur'd  by, 
With  holier  scent  and  lustre,  than  the  sigh 
And  virgin-glance  of  first  affection  cast 
Upon  their  youth's  smooth  current,  as  it  pass'd ! 
But  war  disturb  'd  this  vision, —  far  away 
From  her  fond  eyes  summon'd  to  join  the  array 
Of  Persia's  warriors  on  the  hills  of  Thrace, 
The  youth  exchanged  his  sylvan  dwelling-place 
For  the  rude  tent  and  war-field's  deathful  clash  ; 
His  Zelica's  sweet  glances  for  the  flash 
Of  Grecian  wild-fire,  and  Love's  gentle  chains 
For  bleeding  bondage  on  Byzantium's  plains. 

Month  after  month,  in  widowhood  of  soul 
Drooping,  the  maiden  saw  two  summers  roll 
Their  suns  away  —  but  ah!   how  cold  and  dim 
Even  summer  suns,  when  not  beheld  with  him! 
From  time  to  time  ill-omen'd  rumors  came, 
Like  spirit-tongues  muttering  the  sick  man's  name, 
Just    ere   he   dies:  —  at   length    those    sounds  of 

dread 

Fell  withering  on  her  soul,  "  Azin  is  dead ! " 
O  Grief,  beyond  all  other  griefs,  when  fate 
First  leaves  the  young  heart  lone  and  desolate 
In  the  wide  world,  without  that  only  tie 
For  which  it  loved  to  live  or  fear'd  to  die ;  — 
Lorn  as  the  hung-up  lute,  that  ne'er  hath  spoken 
Since  the  sad  day  its  master-chord  was  broken  ( 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KIIORASSAN.     43. 

Fond  maid,  the  sorrow  of  her  soul  was  such, 
Even  reason  sunk, —  blighted  beneath  its  touch  : 
And  though,  ere  long,  her  sanguine  spirit  rose 
Above  the  first  dead  pressure  of  its  woes, 
Though  health  and  bloom   return'd,  the   delicate 

chain 

Of  thought,  once  tangled,  never  clear'd  again. 
Warm,  lively,  soft  as  in  youth's  happiest  day, 
The  mind  was  still  all  there,  but  turn'd  astray ;  — 
A  wandering  bark,  upon  whose  pathway  shone 
All  stars  of  heaven,  except  the  guiding  one  ! 
Again  she  smiled,  nay,  much  and  brightly  smiled,, 
But  'twas  a  lustre,  strange,  unreal,  wild  ; 
And  when  she  sung  to  her  lute's  touching  strain,. 
'Twas  like  the  notes,  half  ecstasy,  half  pain, 
The  bulbul  utters,  ere  her  soul  depart, 
When,  vanquish'd  by  some  minstrel's  powerful  art, 
She  dies  upon  the  lute  whose  sweetness  broke  her 

heart! 

Such  was  the  mood  in  which  that  mission  found 
Young  Zelica,  —  that  mission,  which  around 
The  Eastern  world,  in  every  region  blest 
With  woman's  smile,  sought  out  its  loveliest, 
To  grace  that  galaxy  of  lips  and  eyes 
Which  the  Veil'd  Prophet  destined  for  the  skies : 
And  such  quick  welcome  as  a  spark  receives 
Dropp'd  on  a  bed  of  autumn's  wither'd  leaves, 
Did  every  tale  of  these  enthusiasts  find 
In  the  wild  maiden's  sorrow-blighted  mind. 


44  LALLA   ROOKIf. 

All  fire  at  once  the  maddening  zeal  she  caught ; 
Elect  of  Paradise  !  blest,  rapturous  thought ! 
Predestined  bride,  in  heaven's  eternal  dome, 
Of  some  brave  youth  —  ha!    durst  they  say   "  of 

some  "  ? 

No  —  of  the  one,  one  only  object  traced 
In  her  heart's  core  too  deep  to  be  effaced ; 
The  one  whose  memory,  fresh  as  life,  is  twined 
With  every  broken  link  of  her  lost  mind  ; 
Whose    image    lives,    though    Reason's    self   be 

wreck 'd, 
Safe  'mid  the  ruins  of  her  intellect! 

Alas,  poor  Zelica  !  it  needed  all 
The  fantasy  which  held  thy  mind  in  thrall, 
To  see  in  that  gay  Haram's  glowing  maids 
A  sainted  colony  for  Eden's  shades ; 
Or  dreamed  that  he,  of  whose  unholy  flame 
Thou  wert  too  soon  the  victim,  shining  came 
From  Paradise,  to  people  its  pure  sphere 
With  souls  like  thine,  which  he  hath  ruin'd  here  ! 
No  —  had  not  Reason's  light  totally  set, 
And  left  thee  dark,  thou  hadst  an  amulet 
In  the  loved  image,  graven  on  thy  heart, 
Which  would  have  saved  thee  from  the   tempter's 

art, 

And  kept  alive,  in  all  its  bloom  of  breath, 
That  purity  whose  fading  is  love's  death  ! — 
But  lost,  inflamed, —  a  restless  zeal  took  place 
Of  the  mild  virgin's  still  and  feminine  grace ; 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     45 

First  of  the  Prophet's  favorites,  —  proudly  first 

In  zeal  and  charms, —  too  well  the  Impostor  nursed 

Her  soul's  delirium,  in  whose  active  flame, 

Thus  lighting  up  a  young,  luxuriant  frame, 

He  saw  more  potent  sorceries  to  bind 

To  his  dark  yoke  the  spirits  of  mankind, 

More  subtile  chains  than  hell  itself  e'er  twined. 

No  art  was  spared,  no  witchery :  — all  the  skill 

His  demons  taught  him  was  employ'd  to  fill 

Her  mind  with  gloom  and  ecstasy  by  turns  — 

That  gloom,    through   which   Frenzy   but    fiercer 

burns ; 

That  ecstasy,  which  from  the  depth  of  sadness 
Glares  like  the  maniac's  moon,  whose  light  is  mad- 
ness. 

'Twas  from  a  brilliant  banquet,  where  the  sound 
Of  poesy  and  music  breathed  around, 
Together  picturing  to  her  mind  and  ear 
The  glories  of  that  heaven,  her  destined  sphere, 
Where  all  was  pure,  where  every  stain  that  lay 
Upon  the  spirit's  light  should  pass  away, 
And,  realizing  more  than  youthful  love 
E'er  wish'd,  or  dream'd,  she  should  forever  TOTC 
Through  fields  of  fragrance  by  her  Azim's  side, 
His  own  bless'd,  purified,  eternal  bride  !  — 
'Twas  from  a  scene,  a  witching  trance  like  this, 
He  hurried  her  away,  yet  breathing  bliss. 
To  the  dim  charnel-house ;  —  through  all  its  streams 
Of  damp  and  death,  led  only  by  those  gleams 


40  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Which  foul  Corruption  lights,  as  with  design 
To  show  the  gay  and  proud  she  too  can  shine  !  — 
And,  passing  on  through  upright  ranks  of  Dead, 
Which  to  the  maiden,  doubly  crazed  by  dread, 
Seem'd,  thro'  the  bluish  death-light  round  them  cast 
To  move  their  lips  in  mutterings  as  she  passed,  — 
There,  in  that  awful  place,  when  each  had  quaffd 
And  pledged  in  silence  such  a  fearful  draught, 
Such  —  oh,  the  look  and  taste  of  that  red  bowl 
Will  haunt  her  till  she  dies  !  —  he  bound  her  soul 
By  a  dark  oath,  in  hell's  own  language  framed, 
Never,  while  earth  his  mystic  presence  claimed, 
While  the  blue  arch  of  day  hung  o'er  them  both, 
Never,  by  that  all-imprecating  oath, 
In  joy  or  sorrow  from  his  side  to  sever.  — 
She  swore,  and  the  wide  charnel  echoed,  "  Never, 
never ! " 

From  that  dread  hour,  entirely,  wildly  given 
To    him,    and  —  she    believed,    lost    maid!  —  to 

Heaven, 

Her  brain,  her  heart,  her  passions  all  inflamed, 
How  proud  she  stood,  when  in  full  Haram  named 
The  Priestess  of  the  Faith  !  —  how  flash'd  her  eyes 
With  light,  alas  !  that  was  not  of  the  skies, 
When  round,  in  trances  only  less  than  hers, 
She    saw  the    Haram  kneel,   her  prostrate  wor- 
shippers ! 

Well  might  Mokanna  think  that  form  alone 
Had  spells  enough  to  make  the  world  his  own :  — 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAK.     tf 

Light,  lovely  limbs,  to  which  the  spirit's  play 
Gave  motion,  airy  as  the  dancing  spray, 
When  from  its  stem  the  small  bird  wings  away ; 
Lips  in  whose  rosy  labyrinth,  when  she  smiled, 
The  soul  was  lost;  and  blushes,  swift  and  wild 
'As  are  the  momentary  meteors  sent 
Across  the  uncalm  but  beauteous  firmament. 
And  then  her  look  —  oh,  where's  the  heart  so  wise 
Could  unbewilder'd  meet  those  matchless  eyes? 
Quick,  restless,  strange,  but  exquisite  withal, 
Like  those  of  angels,  just  before  their  fall ; 
Now  shadow'd  with  the  shames  of  earth  —  now  crost 
By  glimpses  of  the  heaven  her  heart  had  lost ; 
In  every  glance  there  broke,  without  control, 
The  flashes  of  a  bright  but  troubled  soul, 
Where  sensibility  still  wildly  play'd, 

Like  lightning,  round  the  ruins  it  had  made ! 

• 

And  such  was  now  young  Zelica  —  so  changed 
From  her  who,  some  years  since,  delighted  ranged 
The  almond  groves  that  shade  Bokhara's  tide, 
All  life  and  bliss,  with  Azim  by  her  side  ! 
So  alter'd  was  she  npw,  this  festal  day, 
When,  'mid  the  proud  Divan's  dazzling  array, 
The  vision  of  that  Youth  whom  she  had  loved, 
Had  wept  as  dead,  before  her  breathed  and  moved' 
When,  bright,  she  thought,  as  if  from  Eden's  track 
But  half-way  trodden,  he  had  wander'd  back 
Again  to  earth,  glistening  with  Eden's  light, 
Her  beauteous  Azim  shone  before  her  sight. 


48  LALLA   ROOKH. 

O  Reason !  who  shall  say  what  spells  renew, 
When  least  we  look  for  it,  thy  broken  clew ! 
Through  what  small  vistas  o'er  the  darken'd  brain 
Thy  intellectual  day-beam  bursts  again  ; 
And  how,  like  forts,  to  which  beleaguerers  win 
Unhoped-for  entrance  through  some  friend  within, 
One  clear  idea,  waken'd  in  the  breast 
By  memory's  magic,  lets  in  all  the  rest ! 
Would  it  were  thus,  unhappy  girl,  with  thee  ! 
But  though  light  came,  it  came  but  partially ; 
Enough  to  show  the  maze  in  which  thy  sense 
Wander'd  about,  —  but  not  to  guide  it  thence ; 
Enough  to  glimmer  o'er  the  yawning  wave, 
But  not  to  point  the  harbor  which  might  save. 
Hours  of  delight  and  peace,  long  left  behind, 
With  that  dear  form  came  rushing  o'er  her  mind ; 
But  oh,  to  think  how  deep  her  soul  had  gone 
In  shame  and  falsehood  since  those  moments  shone  I 
And  then,  her  oath  —  there  madness  lay  again, 
And,  shuddering,  back  she  sunk  into  her  chain 
Of  mental  darkness,  as  if  blest  to  flee 
From  light,  whose  every  glimpse  was  agony ! 
Yet,  one  relief  this  glance  of  former  years 
Brought,  mingled  with  its  pain,  —  tears,  floods  of 

tears, 

Long  frozen  at  her  heart,  but  now  like  rills 
Let  loose  in  spring-time  from  the  snowy  hills, 
And  gushing  warm,  after  a  sleep  of  frost, 
Through  valleys  where  their  flow   had   long  been 

lost. 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     49 

Sad  and  subdued,  for  the  first  time  her  frame 
Trembled  with  horror,  when  the  summons  came 
(A  summons  proud  and  rare,  which  all  but  she, 
And  she  till  now,  had  heard  with  ecstasy) 
To  meet  Mokanna  at  his  place  of  prayer, 
A  garden  oratory,  cool  and  fair, 
By  the  stream's  side,  where  still  at  close  of  day 
The  Prophet  of  the  Veil  retired  to  pray ; 
Sometimes  alone  —  but,  oftener  far,  with  one, 
One  chosen  nymph  to  share  his  orison. 


Of  late  none  found  such  favor  in  his  sight 
As  the  young  Priestess ;  and  though,  since  that  night 
When  the  death-caverns  echoed  every  tone 
Of  the  dir«  oath  that  made  her  all  his  own, 
The  Impostor,  sure  of  his  infatuate  prize, 
Had  more  than  once  thrown  off  his  soul's  disguise, 
And  ut.ter'd  such  unheavenly,  monstrous  things, 
As  even  across  the  desperate  wanderings 
Of  a  weak  intellect,  whose  lamp  was  out, 
Threw  startling  shadows  of  dismay  and  doubt, 
Yet  zeal,  ambition,  her  tremendous  vow, 
The  thought,  still  haunting  her,  of  that  bright  brow, 
Whose  blaze,  as  yet  from  mortal  eye  conceal'd, 
Would  soon,  proud  triumph  !  be  to  her  reveal'd, 
To  her  alone  ;  —  and  then  the  hope,  most  dear, 
Most  wild  of  all,  that  her  transgression  here 
Was  but  a  passage  through  Earth's  grosser  fire, 
From  ^rhich  the  spirit  would  at  last  aspire, 


5<D  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Even  purer  than  before :  as  perfumes  rise 

Thro1  flame  and  smoke,  most  welcome  to  the  skies ; 

And  that  when  Azim's  fond,  divine  embrace 

Should  circle  her  in  heaven,  no  darkening  trace 

Would  on  that  bosom  he  once  loved  remain, 

But  all  be  bright,  be  pure,  be  his  again  !  — 

These  were   the   wildering  dreams,   whose    curst 

deceit 

Had  chain'd  her  soul  beneath  the  tempter's  feet, 
And  made  her  think  even  damning  falsehood  sweet. 
But  now  that  Shape,  which  had  appall'd  her  view, 
That  Semblance  —  oh,  how  terrible,  if  true!  — 
Which  came  across  her  frenzy's  full  career 
With  shock  of  consciousness,  cold,  deep,  severe, 
As  when,  in  northern  seas,  at  midnight  dark, 
An  isle  of  ice  encounters  some  swift  bark, 
And,  startling  all  its  wretches  from  their  sleep, 
By  one  cold  impulse  hurls  them  to  the  deep ; 
So  came  that  shock  not  frenzy's  self  could  bear, 
And  waking  up  each  long-lull'd  image  there, 
But  check'd  her  headlong  soul,  to  sink  it  in  despair! 

Wan  and  dejected,  through  the  evening  dusk, 
She  now  went  slowly  to  that  small  kiosk, 
Where,  pondering  alone  his  impious  schemes, 
Mokanna  waited  her :  too  rapt  in  dreams 
Of  the  fair-ripening  future's  rich  success, 
To  heed  the  sorrow,  pale  and  spiritless, 
That  sat  upon  his  victim's  downcast  brow, 
Or  mark  how  slow  her  step,  how  alter'd  now 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.      5! 

From  the  quick,  ardent  Priestess,  whose  light  bound 
Came  like  a  spirit's  o'er  the  unechoing  ground,  — 
From  that  wild  Zelica,  whose  every  glance 
Was  thrilling  fire,  whose  every  thought  a  trance ! 


Upon  his  couch  the  Veil'd  Mokanna  lay, 
While  lamps  around  —  not  such  as  lend  their  ray, 
Glimmering  and  cold,  to  those  who  nightly  pray 
In  holy  Koom,  or  Mecca's  dim  arcades, 
But  brilliant,  soft,  such  lights  as  lovely  maids 
Look  loveliest  in,  —  shed  their  luxurious  glow 
Upon  his  mystic  Veil's  white  glittering  flow. 
Beside  him,  'stead  of  beads  and  books  of  prayer, 
Which  the  world  fondly  thought  he  mused  on  there, 
Stood  vases,  fill'd  with  Kishmee's  golden  wine, 
And  the  red  weepings  of  the  Shiraz  vine ; 
Of  which  his  curtain'd  lips  full  many  a  draught 
Took  zealously,  as  if  each  drop  they  quaffd, 
Like  Zemzem's  Spring  of  Holiness,  had  power 
T_o  freshen  the  soul's  virtues  into  flower ! 
And  still  he  drank  and  ponder'd,  nor  could  see 
The  approaching  maid,  so  deep  his  reverie ; 
At  length,  with  fiendish   laugh,   like  that  which 

broke 

From  Eblis  at  the  Fall- of  Man,  he  spoke  : 
"  Yes,  ye  vile  race,  for  hell's  amusement  given, 
Too  mean  for  earth,  yet  claiming  kin. with  heaven: 
God's  images,  forsooth  !  such  Gods  as  he 
Whom  India  serves,  the  monkey  deity; 


52  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Ye  creatures  of  a  breath,  proud  things  of  clay, 
To  whom  if  Lucifer,  as  grandams  say, 
Refused,  though  at  the  forfeit  of  heaven's  light, 
To  bend  in  worship,  Lucifer  was  right ! 
Soon  shall  I  plant  this  foot  upon  the  neck 
Of  your  foul  race,  and  without  fear  or  check, 
Luxuriating  in  hate,  avenge  my  shame, 
My  deep-felt,  long-nurst  loathing  of  man's  name; 
Soon  at  the  head  of  myriads,  blind  and  fierce 
As  hooded  falcons,  through  the  universe 
111  sweep  my  darkening,  desolating  way, 
Weak  man  my  instrument,  curst  man  my  prey ! 


"Ye wise,  ye  learn'd,  who  grope  your  dull  way 

on 

By  the  dim  twinkling  gleams  of  ages  gone, 
Like  superstitious  thieves,  who  think  the  light 
From   dead   men's   marrow  guides   them  best    at 

night, 

Ye  shall  have  honors,  wealth,  —  yes,  Sages,  yes  ! 
I  know,  grave  fools,  your  wisdom's  nothingness  ; 
Undazzled  it  can  track  yon  starry  sphere, 
But  a  gilt  stick,  a  bauble,  blinds  it  here. 
How  I  shall  laugh,  when  trumpeted  along 
In  lying  speech  and  still  more  lying  song, 
By  these  learn'd  slaves,  the  meanest  of  the  throng, 
Their  wits   bought  up,   their  wisdom    shrunk  so 

small, 
A  sceptre's  puny  point  can  wield  it  all ! 

I 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     53 

"Ye,  too,  believers  of  incredible  creeds, 
Whose    faith    enshrines     the   monsters    which    it 

breeds ; 

Who,  bolder  even  than  Nemrod,  think  to  rise, 
By  nonsense  heap'd  on  nonsense,  to  the  skies ; 
Ye  shall  have  miracles,  ay,  sound  ones  too, 
Seen,  heard,  attested,  —  everything  but  true. 
Your  preaching  zealots,  too  inspired  to  seek 
One  grace  of  meaning  for  the  things  they  speak ; 
Your  martyrs,  ready  to  shed  out  their  blood 
For  truths  too  heavenly  to  be  understood ; 
And  your  State  Priests,  sole  vendors  of  the  lore 
That  works  salvation,  —  as,  on  Ava's  shore, 
Where  none  but  priests  are  privileged  to  trade 
In  that  best  marble  of  which  gods  are  made ; 
They  shall  have  mysteries  —  ay,  precious  stuff 
For  knaves  to  thrive  by  —  mysteries  enough  ; 
Dark,  tangled  doctrines,  dark  as  fraud  can  weave, 
Which  simple  votaries  shall  on  trust  receive, 
While  craftier  feign  belief,  till  they  believe. 
A  Heaven,  too,  ye  must  have,  ye  lords  of  dust, 
A  splendid  Paradise,  pure  souls,  ye  must : 
That  Prophet  ill  sustains  his  holy  call 
Who  finds  not  heavens  to  suit  the  tastes  of  all ; 
Houris  for  boys,  omniscience  for  sages, 
And  wings  and  glories  for  all  ranks  and  ages. 
Vain  things  !  as  lust  or  vanity  inspires, 
The  Heaven  of  each  is  but  what  each  desires ; 
And,  soul  or  sense,  whate'er  the  object  be, 
Man  would  be  man  to  all  eternity ! 


54  LALLA   ROOKH. 

So  let  him  —  Eblis  .'  grant  this  crowning  curse, 
But  keep  him  what  he  is,  no  Hell  were  worse." 

"  O  my  lost  soul !  "  exclaim'd  the  shuddering  maid, 
Whose  ears  had  drunk  like  poison  all  he  said  ; 
Mokanna  started  —  not  abash'd,  afraid,  — 
He  knew  no  more  of  fear  than  one  who  dwells 
Beneath  the  tropics  knows  of  icicles  ! 
But,  in  those  dismal  words  that  reached  his  ear, 
"  O  my  lost  soul !  "  there  was  a  sound  so  drear, 
So  like  that  voice,  among  the  sinful  dead, 
In  which  the  legend  o'er  Hell's  Gate  is  read, 
That,  new  as  'twas  from  her  whom  nought  could  dim 
Or  sink  tiil  now,  it  startled  even  him. 

"  Ha,  my  fair  Priestess  !  " —  thus,  with  ready  wile, 
The  impostor  turn'd  to  greet  her  —  "  thou  whose 

smile 

Hath  inspiration  in  its  rosy  beam 
Beyond  the  Enthusiast's  hope  or  Prophet's  dream  ! 
Light  of  the  faith !  who  twin'st  religion's  zeal 
So  close  with  love's,  men  know  not  which  they  feei ; 
Nor  which  to  sigh  for,  in  their  trance  of  heart, 
The  heaven  thou  preachest  or  the  heaven  thou  art ! 
What  should  I  be  without  thee?  without  thee 
How  dull  were  power,  how  joyless  victory  ! 
Though  borne  by  angels,  if  that  smile  of  thine 
Bless'd  not  my  banner,  'twere  but  half  divine. 
But  why  so  mournful,  child?  those  eyes,  that  shone 
All  life  last  night  — what '!  —  is  their  glory  gone  ? 


VEILED   PROPHET  OP  KPIORASSAN.     5$ 

Come,  come  —  this  morn's  fatigue  hath  made  them 

pale, 

They  want  rekindling:  suns  themselves  would  fail, 
Did  not  their  comets  bring,  as  I  to  thee, 
From  light's  own  fount  supplies  of  brilliancy. 
Thou  seest  this  cup  —  no  juice  of  earth  is  here, 
But  the  pure  waters  of  that  upper  sphere 
Whose  rills  over  ruby  beds  and  topaz  flow, 
Catching  the  gem's  bright  color  as  they  go. 
Nightly  my  Genii  come  and  fill  these  urns  — 
Nay,  drink  —  in  every  drop  life's  essence  burns ; 
'Twill  make  that  soul  all  fire,  those  eyes  all  light  — 
Come,  come,  I  want  thy  loveliest  smiles  to-night :  — - 
There  is    a   youth  —  why   start?    thou  saw'st   him 

then ; 

Look'd  he  not  nobly?  such  the  godlike  men 
Thou'lt  have  to  woo  thee  in  the  bowers  above ; 
Though  he,  I  fear,  hath  thoughts  too  stern  for  love. 
Too  ruled  by  that  cold  enemy  of  bliss 
The  world  calls  virtue  —  we  must  conquer  this; 
Nay,  shrink  not,  pretty  sage  !  'tis  not  for  thee 
To  scan  the  mazes  of  heaven's  mystery : 
The  steel  must  pass  through  fire,  ere  it  can  yield 
Fit  instruments  for  mighty  hands  to  wield. 
This  very  night  I  mean  to  try  the  art 
Of  powerful  beauty  on  that  warriors  heart. 
All  that  my  Haram  boasts  of  bloom  and  wit, 
Of  skill  and  charms  most  rare  and  exquisite, 
Shall  tempt  the  boy ;  —  young  Mirzala's  blue  eyes, 
Whose  sleepy  lid  like  snow  on  violets  lies ; 


56  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Arouya's  cheeks,  warm  as  a  spring-day  sun, 
And  lips  that,  like  the  seal  of  Solomon, 
Have  magic  in  their  pressure ;  Zeba's  lute, 
And  Lilians  dancing  feet,  that  gleam  and  shoot 
Rapid  and  white  as  sea-birds  o'er  the  deep  — 
All  shall  combine  their  witching  powers  to  steep 
My  convert's  spirit  in  that  softening  trance, 
From  which  to  heaven  is  but  the  next  advance ; 
That  glowing,  yielding  fusion  of  the  breast, 
On  which  Religion  stamps  her  image  best. 
But  hear  me,  Priestess  !     Tho'  each  nymph  of  these 
Hath  some  peculiar,  practised  power  to  please, 
Some  glance  or  step  which,  at  the  mirror  tried, 
First  charms  herself,  then  all  the  world  beside ; 
There  still  wants  one,  to  make  the  victory  sure, 
One  who  in  every  look  joins  every  lure ; 
Thro'  whom  all  beauty's  beams  concentred  pass, 
Dazzling  and  warm,  as  thro'  love's  burning-glass; 
Whose  gentle  lips  persuade  without  a  word, 
Whose  words,  even  when  unmeaning,  are  adored, 
Like  inarticulate  breathings  from  a  shrine, 
Which  our  faith  takes  for  granted  are  divine ! 
Such  is  the  nymph  we  want,  all  warmth  and  light, 
To  crown  the  rich  temptations  of  to-night : 
Such  the  refined  enchantress  that  must  be 
This  hero's  vanquisher,  —  and  thou  art  she!" 


With  her  hands  clasp'd,  her  lips  apart  and  pale, 
The  maid  had  stood,  gazing  upon  the  Veil 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     $? 

From  which  these  words,  like  south  winds  through 

a  fence 

Of  Kerzrah's  flowers,  came  filled  with  pestilence ; 
So  boldly  utter'd,  too  !  as  if  all  dread 
Of  frowns  from  her,  of  virtuous  frowns,  were  fled, 
And  the  wretch  felt  assured  that,  once  plunged  in, 
Her  woman's  soul  would  know  no  pause  in  sin ! 

At  first,  though  mute  she  listen'd,  like  a  dream 
Seem'd  all  he  said  :  nor  could  her  mind,  whose  beam 
As  yet  was  weak,  penetrate  half  his  scheme. 
But  when,  at  length,  he  utter'd,  "  Thou  art  she ! " 
All  flash'd  at  once,  and  shrieking  piteously, 
"  Oh,  not  for  worlds  !  "  she  cried.     "  Great  God  !  to 

whom 

I  once  knelt  innocent,  is  this  my  doom? 
Are  all  my  dreams,  my  hopes  of  heavenly  bliss, 
My  purity,  my  pride,  then  come  to  this,  — 
To  live,  the  wanton  of  a  fiend !  to  be 
The  pander  of  his  guilt  —  oh,  infamy ! 
And  sunk,  myself,  as  low  as  hell  can  steep 
In  its  hot  flood,  drag  others  down  as  deep ! 
Others  —  ha !  yes  —  that  youth  who  came  to-day  — 
Not  him  I  loved  —  not  him  —  oh  !  do  but  say, 
But  swear  to  me  this  moment  'tis  not  he, 
And   I  will  serve,  dark   fiend,  will   worship   even 

thee  ! " 

"  Beware,  young  raving  thing  !  —  in  time  beware, 
Nor  utter  what  I  cannot,  must  not  bear, 


$8  LALLA  ROOKH. 

Even  from  thy  lips.     Go  —  try  thy  lute,  thy  voice, 
The  boy  must  feel  their  magic ;  —  I  rejoice 
To  see  those  fires,  no  matter  whence  they  rise, 
Once  more  illuming  my  fair  Priestess1  eyes  ; 
And  should  the  youth,  whom  soon  those  eyes  shall 

warm, 

Indeed  resemble  thy  dead  lover's  form, 
So  much  the  happier  wilt  thou  find  thy  doom, 
As  one  warm  lover,  full  of  life  and  bloom, 
Excels  ten  thousand  cold  ones  in  the  tomb. 
Nay,  nay,  no  frowning,  sweet!  —  those  eyes  were 

made 
For  love,  not  anger —  I  must  be  obeyed." 


"  Obey'd !  —  'tis  well  —  yes,  I  deserve  it  all ; 
On  me,  on  me  Heaven's  vengeance  cannot  fall 
Too  heavily;  but  Azim,  brave  and  true 
And  beautiful  —  must  he  be  ruin'd  too? 
Must  he  too,  glorious  as  he  is,  be  driven 
A  renegade  like  me  from  Love  and  Heaven? 
Like  me? — weak  wretch,  I  wrong  him;  not  like 

me; 

No  —  he's  all  truth  and  strength  and  purity ! 
Fill  up  your  maddening  hell-cup  to  the  brim, 
Its  witchery,  fiends,  will  have  no  charm  for  him. 
Let  loose  your  glowing  wantons  from  their  bowers, 
He  loves,  he  loves,  and  can  defy  their  powers  ! 
Wretch  as  I  am,  in  his  heart  still  I  reign 
Pure  as  when  first  we  met,  without  a  stain! 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     59 

Though  ruin'd  —  lost  —  my  memory,  like  a  charm. 
Left  by  the  dead,  still  keeps  his  soul  from  harm. 
Oh,  never  let  him  know  how  deep  the  brow 
He  kiss'd  at  parting  is  dishonor'd  now ;  — 
Ne'er  tell  him  how  debased,  how  sunk  is  she, 
Whom  once  he  loved  —  once !  —  still  loves  dotingly. 
Thou  laugh'st,  tormentor;  what!  thou'lt  brand  my 

name? 

Do,  do  —  in  vain  —  he'll  not  believe  my  shame  — 
He  thinks    me  true ;  that  nought   beneath   God's 

sky 

Could  tempt  or  change  me,  and  —  so  once  thought  I. 
But  this  is  past  —  though  worse  than  death  my  lot, 
Than  hell  — 'tis  nothing  while  he  knows  it  not. 
Far  off  to  some  benighted  land  I'll  fly, 
Where  sunbeam  ne'er  shall  enter  till  I  die ; 
Where  none  will  ask  the  lost  one  whence  she  came, 
But  I  may  fade  and  fall  without  a  name. 
And  thou  —  curst  man  or  fiend,  whate'er  thou  art, 
Who  found'st  this  burning  plague-spot  in  my  heart, 
And  spread'st  it —  oh,  so  quick  !  —  through  soul  and 

frame, 

With  more  than  demon's  art,  till  I  became 
A  loathsome  thing,  all  pestilence,  all  flame  !  -*» 
If  when  I'm  gone  "  — 

"  Hold,  fearless  maniac,  hold, 
Nor  tempt  my  raga  — by  Heaven,  not  half  so  bold 
The  puny  bird,  that  dares  with  teasing  hum 
Within  the  crocodile's  stretch'd  jaws  to  come  ! 


6O  LALLA   ROOKH. 

And  so  thou'lt  fly,  forsooth  ?    What !  —  give  up  ali 
Thy  chaste  dominion  in  the  Haram  Hall, 
Where  now  to  Love  and  now  to  Alia  given, 
Half  mistress  and  half  saint,  thou  hang'st  as  even 
As  doth  Medina's  tomb,  'twixt  hell  and  heaven! 
Thou'lt  fly  !  —  as  easily  may  reptiles  run, 
The  gaunt  snake  once  hath  fix'd  his  eyes  upon ; 
As  easily,  when  caught,  the  prey  may  be 
Pluck'd  from  his  loving  folds,  as  thou  from  me. 
No,  no,  'tis  fix'd  —  let  good  or  ill  betide, 
Thou'rt  mine  till  death,  till  death  Mokanna's  bride ! 
Hast  thou  forgot  thy  oath  ?  "  — 

At  this  dread  word, 

The  maid,  whose  spirit  his  rude  taunts  had  stirr'd 
Through  all  its  depth,  and  roused  an  anger  there 
That  burst  and  lighten'd  even  through  her  despair, 
Shrunk  back,  as  if  a  blight  were  in  the  breath 
That  spoke  that  word,  and  stagger'd,  pale  as  death. 

"  Yes,  my  sworn  bride,  let  others  seek  in  bowers 
Their  bridal  place  —  the  charnel  vault  was  ours  ! 
Instead  of  scents  and  balms,  for  thee  and  me 
Rose  the  rich  streams  of  sweet  mortality ; 
Gay,flickering  death-lights  shone  while  we  were  wed, 
And,  for  our  guests,  a  row  of  goodly  Dead 
(Immortal  spirits  in  their  time,  no  doubt,) 
From  reeking  shrouds  upon  the  rite  look'd  out ! 
That  oath  thou  heard'st  more  lips  than  thine  repeat ; 
That  cup —  thou  shudderest,  Lady,  — was  it  sweet? 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     6 1 

That  cup  we  pledged,  the  charnePs  choicest  wine, 
Hath  bound  thee  —  ay,  body  and  soul  are  mine ; 
Bound  thee  by  chains  that,  whether  blest  or  curst 
No  matter  now,  not  hell  itself  shall  burst ! 
Hence,  woman,  to  the  Haram,  and  look  gay, 
Look  wild,  look  —  anything  but  sad ;  yet  stay  — 
One  moment  more  —  from  what   this   night  hath 

pass'd, 

I  see  thou  know'st  me,  know'st  me  well  at  last. 
Ha !  ha !  and  so,  fond  thing,  thou  thought'st  all  true, 
And  that  I  love  mankind  !  —  I  do,  I  do  — 
As  victims,  love  them  ;  as  the  sea-dog  doats 
Upon  the  small,  sweet  fry  that  round  him  floats; 
Or  as  the  Nile-bird  loves  the  slime  that  gives 
That  rank  and  venomous  food  on  which  she  lives  !  — 

"  And,  now  thou  see'st  my  soufs  angelic  hue, 
'Tis  time  these  features  were  uncurtain'd,  too; 
This  brow,  whose  light  —  oh,  rare  celestial  light !  — 
Hath  been  reserved  to  bless  thy  favor'd  sight ; 
These  dazzling  eyes,  before  whose  shrouded  might 
Thou'st  seen  immortal  Man  kneel  down  and  quake  — 
Would  that  they  were  heaven's  lightnings  for  his 

sake ! 

But  turn  and  look  —  then  wonder,  if  thou  wilt, 
That  I  should  hate,  should  take  revenge,  by  guilt, 
Upon  the  hand  whose  mischief  or  whose  mirth 
Sent  me  thus  maimM  and  monstrous  upon  earth ; 
And  on  that  race  who,  though  more  vile  they  be 
Than  mowing  apes,  are  demi-gods  to  me ! 


62  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Here  —  judge  if  hell,  with  all  its  power  to  damn, 
Can  add  one  curse  to  the  foul  thing  I  am  ! " 

He  raised  his  veil  —  the  maid  turn'd  slowly  round, 
Look'd    at  him  —  shriek'd  —  and   sunk    upon  the 
ground ! 

ON  their  arrival,  next  night,  at  the  place  of  en- 
campment, they  were  surprised  and  delighted  to 
find  the  groves  all  around  illuminated ;  some  artists 
of  Yamtcheou  having  been  sent  on  previously  for 
the  purpose.  On  each  side  of  the  green  alley, 
which  led  to  the  Royal  Pavilion,  artificial  sceneries 
of  bamboo-work  were  erected,  representing  arches, 
minarets,  and  towers,  from  which  hung  thousands 
of  silken  lanterns,  painted  by  the  most  delicate 
pencils  of  Canton.  Nothing  could  be  more  beautiful 
than  the  leaves  of  the  mango-trees  and  acacias, 
shining  in  the  light  of  the  bamboo-scenery,  which 
shed  a  lustre  round  as  soft  as  that  of  the  nights  of 
Peristan. 

Lalla  Rookh,  however,  who  was  too  much  occu- 
pied by  the  sad  story  of  Zelica  and  her  lover,  to 
give  a  thought  to  anything  else,  except,  perhaps, 
to  him  who  related  it,  hurried  on  through  this  scene 
of  splendor  to  her  pavilion;  —  greatly  to  the  mor- 
tification of  the  poor  artists  of  Yamtcheou,  —  and 
was  followed  with  equal  rapidity  by  the  Great 
Chamberlain,  cursing,  as  he  went,  that  ancient 
Mandarin  whose  parental  anxiety  in  lighting  up  the 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN".     63 

shores  of  the  lake,  where  his  beloved  daughter  had 
wandered  and  been  lost,  was  the  origin  of  these 
fantastic  Chinese  illuminations. 

Without  a  moment's  delay,  young  Feramorz  was 
introduced ;  and  Fadladeen,  who  could  never  make 
up  his  mind  as  to  the  merits  of  a  poet  till  he  knew 
the  religious  sect  to  which  he  belonged,  was  about 
to  ask  him  whether  he  was  a  Shia  or  a  Sooni,  when 
Lalla  Rookh  impatiently  clapped  her  hands  for 
silence,  and  the  youth,  being  seated  upon  the 
musnud  near  her,  proceeded  :  — 

PREPARE  thy  soul,  young  Azim  !  —  thou  hast  braved 

The  bands  of  Greece,  still  mighty  though  enslaved ; 

Hast  faced  her  phalanx,  arm'd  with  all  its  fame, 

Her  Macedonian  pikes  and  globes  of  flame ; 

All  this  hast  fronted,  with  firm  heart  and  brow, 

But  a  more  perilous  trial  waits  thee  now,  — 

Woman's  bright  eyes,  a  dazzling  host  of  eyes 

From  every  land  where  woman  smiles  or  sighs : 

Of  every  hue,  as  Love  may  chance  to  raise 

His  black  or  azure  banner  in  their  blaze ; 

And  each  sweet  mode  of  warfare,  from  the  flash 

That  lightens  boldly  through  the  shadowy  lash, 

To  the  sly,  stealing  splendors,  almost  hid, 

Like  swords  half-sheathed,  beneath  the  downcast 

lid: 

Such,  Azim,  is  the  lovely  luminous  host 
Now  led   against  thee ;   and,  let  conquerors  boast 
Their  fields  of  fame,  he  who  in  virtue  arms 
A  young,  warm  spirit  against  beauty's  charms, 


64  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Who  feels  her  brightness,  yet  defies  her  thrall, 
Is  the  best,  bravest  conqueror  of  them  all. 


Now,  thro'  the  Haram  chambers,  moving  lights 
And  busy  shapes  proclaim  the  toilet's  rites  ;  — 
From  room  to  room  the  ready  handmaids  hie, 
Some  skill'd  to  wreathe  the  turban  tastefully, 
Or  hang  the  veil,  in  negligence  of  shade, 
O'er  the  warm  blushes  of  the  youthful  maid, 
Who,  if  between  the  folds  but  one  eye  shone, 
Like  Seba's  Queen  could  vanquish  with  that  one ; 
While  some  bring  leaves  of  Henna,  to  imbue 
The  fingers'  ends  with  a  bright  roseate  hue, 
So  bright,  that  in  the  mirror's  depth  they  seem 
Like  tips  of  coral  branches  in  the  stream  ; 
And  others  mix  the  Kohol's  jetty  dye, 
To  give  that  long,  dark  languish  to  the  eye, 
Which  makes  the  maids,  whom  kings  are  proud  to 

cull 

From  fair  Circassians  vales,  so  beautiful. 
All  is  in  motion ;  rings  and  plumes  and  pearls 
Are  shining  everywhere  : —  some  younger  girls 
Are  gone  by  moonlight  to  the  garden  beds, 
To  gather  fresh,  cool  chaplets  for  their  heads  ; 
Gay  creatures  !  sweet,  tho'  mournful,  'tis  to  see 
How  each  prefers  a  garland  from  that  tree 
Which  brings  to   mind   her  childhood's   innocent 

day, 
And  the  dear  fields  and  friendships  far  away. 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     65 

The  maid  of  India,  blest  again  to  hold 
In  her  full  lap  the  Champac's  leaves  of  gold, 
Thinks  of  the  time  when,  by  the  Ganges'  flood, 
Her  little  playmates  scatter'd  many  a  bud 
Upon  her  long  black  hair,  with  glossy  gleam 
Just  dripping  from  the  consecrated  stream  ; 
While  the  young  Arab,  haunted  by  the  smell 
Of  her  own  mountain  flowers,  as  by  a  spell, — 
The  sweet  Elcaya,  and  that  courteous  tree 
Which  bows  to  all  who  seek  its  canopy,  — 
Sees,  call'd  up  round  her  by  these  magic  scents, 
The  well,  the  camels,  and  her  father's  tents ; 
Sighs  for  the  home  she  left  with  little  pain, 
And  wishes  even  its  sorrows  back  again  ! 


Meanwhile,  through  vast  illuminated  halls, 
Silent  and  bright,  where  nothing  but  the  falls 
Of  fragrant  waters,  gushing  with  cool  sound 
From  many  a  jasper  fount,  is  heard  around, 
Young  Azim  roams  bewilder'd,  —  nor  can  guess 
What  means  this  maze  of  light  and  loneliness. 
Here  the  way  leads,  o'er  tessellated  floors 
Or  mats  of  Cairo,  through  long  corridors, 
Where,  ranged  in  cassolets  and  silver  urns, 
Sweet  wood  of  aloe  or  of  sandal  burns  ; 
And  spicy  rods,  such  as  illume  at  night 
The  bowers  of  Tibet,  send  forth  odorous  light, 
Like  Peris'  wands,  when  pointing  out  the  road 
For  some  pure  Spirit  to  its  blest  abode  :  — 


66  LALLA   ROOKH. 

And  here,  at  once,  the  glittering  saloon 
Bursts  on  his  sight,  boundless  and  bright  as  noon ; 
Where,  in  the  midst,  reflecting  back  the  rays 
In  broken  rainbows,  a  fresh  fountain  plays 
High  as  the  enamell'd  cupola,  which  towers 
All  rich  with  Arabesques  of  gold  and  flowers : 
And  the  mosaic  floor  beneath  shines  through 
The  sprinkling  of  that  fountain's  silvery  dew, 
Like  the  wet,  glistening  shells,  of  every  dye, 
That  on  the  margin  of  the  Red  Sea  lie. 


Here  too  he  traces  the  kind  visitings 
Of  woman's  love,  in  those  fair  living  things 
Of  land  and  wave,  whose  fate  —  in  bondage  thrown 
For  their  weak  loveliness  —  is  like  her  own  ! 
On  one  side,  gleaming  with  a  sudden  grace 
Through  water  brilliant  as  the  crystal  vase 
In  which  it  undulates,  small  fishes  shine, 
Like  golden  ingots  from  a  fairy  mine  ;  — 
While,  on  the  other,  latticed  lightly  in 
With  odoriferous  woods  of  Comorin, 
Each  brilliant  bird  that  wings  the  air  is  seen : 
Gay,  sparkling  loories,  such  as  gleam  between 
The  crimsom  blossoms  of  the  coral  tree 
In  the  warm  Isles  of  India's  sunny  sea : 
Mecca's  blue  sacred  pigeon,  and  the  thrush 
Of  Hindostan,  whose  holy  warblings  gush, 
At  evening,  from  the  tall  pagoda's  top  ;  — 
Those  golden  birds  that,  in  the  spice-time,  drop 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     6/ 

About  the  gardens,  drunk  with  that  sweet  food 
Whose  scent   hath   lured   them   o'er  the  summer 

flood; 

And  those  that  under  Araby's  soft  sun 
Build  their  high  nests  of  budding  cinnamon ;  — 
In  short,  all  rare  and  beauteous  things,  that  fly 
Through  the  pure  element,  here  calmly  lie 
Sleeping  in  light,  like  the  green  birds  that  dwell 
In  Eden's  radiant  fields  of  asphodel. 

So  on,  through  scenes  past  all  imagining,  — 
More  like  the  luxuries  of  that  impious  King 
Whom  Death's  dark  angel,  with  his  lightning  torch, 
Struck  down  and  blasted  even  in  Pleasure's  porch, 
Than  the  pure  dwelling  of  a  Prophet  sent, 
Arm'd  with  Heaven's  sword,  for  man's  enfranchise- 
ment,— 

Young  Azim  wander'd,  looking  sternly  round ; 
His  simple  garb  and  war-boots'  clanking  sound 
But  111  according  with  the  pomp  and  grace 
And  silent  lull  of  that  voluptuous  place. 

"Is  this,  then,"  thought  the  youth.  "  is  this  the  way 
To  free  man's  spirit  from  the  deadening  sway 
Of  worldly  sloth,  — to  teach  him,  while  he  lives, 
To  know  no  bliss  but  that  which  virtue  gives, 
And,  when  he  dies,  to  leave  his  lofty  name 
A  light,  a  landmark  on  the  cliffs  of  fame? 
It  was  not  so,  Land  of  the  generous  thought 
And  daring  deed,  thy  godlike  sages  taught ; 


68  LALLA   ROOKH. 

It  was  not  thus,  in  bowers  of  wanton  ease, 

Thy  freedom  nursed  her  sacred  energies  ; 

Oh,  not  beneath  the  enfeebling,  withering  glow 

Of  such  dull  luxury  did  those  myrtles  grow, 

With  which   she  wreathed   her    sword,  when  she 

would  dare 

Immortal  deeds  ;  but  in  the  bracing  air 
Of  toil,  of  temperance,  —  of  that  high,  rare, 
Ethereal  virtue,  which  alone  can  breathe 
Life,  health,  and  lustre  into  Freedom's  wreath. 
Who  that  surveys  this  span  of  earth  we  press,  — 
This  speck  of  life  in  Time's  great  wilderness, 
This  narrow  isthmus  '  twixt  two  boundless  seas, 
The  past,  the  future,  two  eternities  !  — 
Would  sully  the  bright  spot,  or  leave  it  bare, 
When  he  might  build  him  a  proud  temple  there, 
A  name  that  long  shall  hallow  all  its  space, 
And  be  each  purer  soul's  high  resting-place? 
But  no  —  it  cannot  be,  that  one  whom  God 
Hath  sent  to  break  the  wizard  Falsehood's  rod, 
A  Prophet  of  the  Truth,  whose  mission  draws 
Its  rights  from  Heaven,  should  thus  profane  its  cause 
With  the  world's  vulgar  pomp ;  —  no,  no,  —  I  see  — 
He  thinks  me  weak  —  this  glare  of  luxury 
Is  but  to  tempt,  to  try  the  eaglet  gaze 
Of  my  young  sou! :  shine  on,  'twill  stand  the  blaze  ! " 


So  thought  the  youth  ;  —  but,  even  while  he  defied 
This  witching  scene,  he  felt  its  witchery  glide 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.      69 

Thro'  every  sense.     The  perfume  breathing  round, 

Like  a  pervading  spirit ;  —  the  still  sound 

Of  falling  waters,  lulling  as  the  song 

Of  Indian  bees  at  sunset,  when  they  throng  ^ 

Around  the  fragrant  Nilica,  and  deep 

In  its  blue  blossoms  hum  themselves  to  sleep ; 

And  music,  too  —  dear  music!  that  can  touch 

Beyond  all  else  the  soul  that  loves  it  much  — 

Now  heard  far  off,  so  far  as  but  to  seem 

Like  the  faint,  exquisite  music  of  a  dream, — 

All  was  too  much  for  him,  too  full  of  bliss, 

The  heart  could  nothing  feel,  that  felt  not  this : 

Soften'd  he  sunk  upon  a  couch,  and  gave 

His  soul  up  to  sweet  thoughts,  like  wave  on  wave 

Succeeding  in  smooth  seas,  when  storms  are  laid  : 

He  thought  of  Zelica,  his  own  dear  maid, 

And  of  the  time  when,  full  of  blissful  sighs, 

They  sat  and  look'd  into  each  other's  eyes, 

Silent  and  happy  —  as  if  God  had  given 

Nought  else  worth  looking  at  on  this  side  heaven. 


"  O  my  loved  mistress,  — thou  whose  spirit  still 
Is  with,  me,  round  me,  wander  where  I  will,  — 
It  is  for  thee,  for  thee  alone  I  seek 
The  paths  of  glory ;  to  light  up  thy  cheek 
With  warm  approval  —  in  that  gentle  look 
To  read  my  praise,  as  in  an  angel's  book, 
And  think  all  toils  rewarded,  when  from  thee 
I  gain  a  smile  worth  immortality  ! 
C 


70  LALLA   ROOKH. 

How  shall  I  bear  the  moment  when  restored 

To  that  young  heart  where  I  alone  am  lord, 

Though  of  such  bliss  unworthy  —  since  the  best 

Alone  deserve  to  be  the  happiest,  — 

When  from  those  lips,  unbreathed  upon  for  years, 

I  shall  again  kiss  off  the  soul-felt  tears, 

And  find  those  tears  warm  as  when  last  they  started, 

Those  sacred  kisses  pure  as  when  we  parted? 

O  my  own  life  !  —  why  should  a  single  day, 

A  moment,  keep  me  from  those  arms  away?  " 

While  thus  he  thinks,  still  nearer  on  the  breeze 
Come  those  delicious,  dream-like  harmonies, 
Each  note  of  which  but  adds  new  downy  links 
To  the  soft  chain  in  which  his  spirit  sinks. 
He  turns  him  toward  the  sound,  and  far  away 
Through  a  long  vista  sparkling  with  the  play 
Of  countless  lamps,  —  like  the  rich  track  which  Day 
Leaves  on  the  waters,  when  he  sinks  from  us,' 
So  long  the  path,  its  light  so  tremulous,  — 
He  sees  a  group  of  female  forms  advance, 
Some  chain'd  together  in  the  mazy  dance 
By  fetters,  forged  in  the  green  sunny  bowers, 
As  they  were  captives  to  the  King  of  Flowers ; 
And  some  disporting  round,  unlink'd  and  free, 
Who  seem'd  to  mock  their  sisters1  slavery ; 
And  round  and  round  them  still,  in  wheeling  flight, 
Went,  like  gay  moths  about  a  lamp  at  night ; 
While  others  walk'd,  as  gracefully  along 
Their  feet  kept  time,  the  very  soul  of  song, 


VEILED   PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     /I 

From  psaltery,  pipe,  and  lutes  of  heavenly  thrill, 
Or  their  own  youthful  voices,  heavenlier  still. 
And  now  they  come,  now  pass  before  his  eye. 
Forms  such  as  Nature  moulds,  when  she  would  vie 
With  Fancy's  pencil,  and  give  birth  to  things 
Lively  beyond  its  fairest  picturings. 
Awhile  they  dance  before  him,  then  divide, 
Breaking,  like  rosy  clouds  at  even-tide 
Around  the  rich  pavilion  of  the  sun,  — 
Till  silently  dispersing,  one  by  one 
Through  many  a  path  that  from  the  chamber  leads 
To  gardens,  terraces,  and  moonlight  meads, 
Their  distant  laughter  comes  upon  the  wind, 
And  but  one  trembling  nymph  remains  behind,  — 
Beckoning  them  back  in  vain,  for  they  are  gone, 
And  she  is  left  in  all  that  light  alone ; 
No  veil  to  curtain  o'er  her  beauteous  brow, 
In  its  young  bashfulness  more  beauteous  now; 
But  a  light  golden  chain-work  round  her  hair, 
Such  as  the  maids  of  Yezd  and  Shiraz  wear, 
From  which,  on  either  side,  gracefully  hung 
A  golden  amulet,  in  the  Arab  tongue 
Engraven  o'er  with  some  immortal  line 
From  Holy  Writ,  or  bard  scarce  less  divin«  ; 
While  her  left  hand,  as  shrinkingly  she  stood, 
Held  a  small  lute  of  gold  and  sandal-wood,  / 

Which  once  or  twice  she  touched  with  hurried  strain, ' 
Then  took  her  trembling  fingers  off  again. 
But  when  at  length  a  timid  glance  she  stole 
At  Azim,  the  sweet  gravity  of  soul 


/2  LALLA  ROOKH. 

She  saw  through  all  his  features  calm'd  her  fear, 
And  like  a  half-tamed  antelope,  more  near, 
Though  shrinking  still,  she  came ;  then   sat   her 

down 

Upon  a  musnud's  edge,  and,  bolder  grown, 
In  the  pathetic  mode  of  Isfahan 
Touch'd  a  preluding  strain,  and  thus  began  : 

There's  a  bower  of  roses  by  Bendemeer's  stream, 
And  the  nightingale  sings  round  it  all  the  day  long ; 

In  the  time  of  my  childhood  'twas  like  a  sweet  dream 
To  sit  in  the  roses  and  hear  the  bird's  song. 

That  bower  and  its  music  I  never  forget ; 

But  oft  when  alone,  in  the  bloom  of  the  year, 
I  think —  is  the  nightingale  singing  there  yet? 

Are  the  roses  still  bright  by  the  calm  Bendemeer? 

No,  the  roses  soon  wither'd  that  hung  o'er  the  wave, 
But  some  blossoms  were  gather'd  while  freshly 

they  shone, 

And  a  dew  was  distill'd  from  their  flowers  that  gave 
All  the  fragrance  of  summer,  when  summer  was 
gone. 

Thus  memory  draws  from  delight,  ere  it  dies, 
An  essence  that  breathes  of  it  many  a  year ; 

Thus  bright  to  my  soul,  as  'twas  then  to  mine  eyes, 
Is  that  bower  on  the  banks  of  the  calm  Bendemeer. 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     73 

"Poor  maiden!"  thought  the  youth,  "if  thoa 

wert  sent, 

With  thy  soft  lute  and  beauty's  blandishment, 
To  wake  unholy  wishes  in  this  heart, 
Or  tempt  its  truth,  thou  little  know'st  the  art ; 
For  though  thy  lip  should  sweetly  counsel  wrong, 
Those  vestal  eyes  would  disavow  its  song.  , 

But  thou  hast  breathed  such  purity,  thy  lay  j 

Returns  so  fondly  to  youth's  virtuous  day, 
And  leads  thy  soul  —  if  e'er  it  wanderd  thence  — 
So  gently  back  to  its  first  innocence, 
That  I  would  sooner  stop  the  unchain'd  dove, 
When  swift  returning  to  its  home  of  love, 
And  round  its  snowy  wing  new  fetters  twine, 
Than  turn  from  virtue  one  pure  wish  of  thine  !  " 


Scarce  had  this  feeling  pass'd,  when,  sparkling 

through 

The  gently  open'd  curtains  of  light  blue 
That  veil'd  the  breezy  casement,  countless  eyes, 
Peeping  like  stars  through  the  blue  evening  skies, 
Look'd  laughing  in,  as  if  to  mock  the  pair 
That  sat  so  still  and  melancholy  there :  — 
And  now  the  curtains  fly  apart,  and  in 
From  the  cool  air,  'mid  showers  of  jessamine 
Which  those  without  fling  after  them  in  play, 
Two  lightsome  maidens  spring  —  lightsome  as  they 
Who  live  in  the  air  on  odors,  — and  around 
The  bright  saloon,  scarce  conscious  of  the  ground, 


74  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Chase  one  another,  in  a  varying  dance 
Of  mirth  and  languor,  coyness  and  advance, 
Too  eloquently  like  love's  warm  pursuit :  — 
While  she,  who  sung  so  gently  to  the  lute 
Her  dream  of  home,  steals  timidly  away, 
Shrinking  as  violets  do  in  summer's  ray,  — 
But  takes  with  her  from  Azim's  heart  that  sigh 
We  sometimes  give  to  forms  that  pass  us  by 
In  the  world's  crowd,  too  lovely  to  remain, 
Creatures  of  light  we  never  see  again ! 


Around   the   white   necks   of  the   nymphs  who 

danced 

Hung  carcanets  of  orient  gems,  that  glanced 
More  brilliant  than  the  sea-glass  glittering  o'er 
The  hills  of  crystal  on  their  Caspian  shore  ; 
While  from  their  long  dark  tresses,  in  a  fall 
Of  curls  descending,  bells  as  musical 
As  those  that,  on  the  golden-shafted  trees 
Of  Eden,  shake  in  the  eternal  breeze, 
Rung  round  their  steps,  at  every  bound  more  sweet, 
As  'twere  the  ecstatic  language  of  their  feet. 
At  length    the   chase   was    o'er,  and   they  stood 

wreathed 

Within  each  others  arms  ;  while  soft  there  breathed 
Through  the  cool  casement,  mingled  with  the  sighs 
Of  moonlight  flowers,  music  that  seem'd  to  rise 
From  some  still  lake,  so  liquidly  it  rose ; 
And,  as  it  swell'd  again  at  each  faint  close, 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     75 

The  ear  could  track,  through  all  that  maze  of  chords 
And  young  sweet  voices,  these  impassion'd  words  : 

A  Spirit  there  is,  whose  fragrant  sigh 
Is  burning  now  through  earth  and  air : 

Where  cheeks  are  blushing,  the  Spirit  is  nigh ; 
Where  lips  are  meeting,  the  Spirit  is  there  ! 

His  breath  is  the  soul  of  flowers  like  these, 
And  his  floating  eyes  —  oh,  they  resemble 

Blue  water-lilies,  when  the  breeze 

Is  making  the  stream  around  them  tremble. 

Hail  to  thee,  hail  to  thee,  kindling  power  ! 

Spirit  of  Love,  Spirit  of  Bliss  ! 
Thy  holiest  time  is  the  moonlight  hour, 

And  there  never  was  moonlight  so  sweet  as  this, 

By  the  fair  and  brave 

Who  blushing  unite, 
Like  the  sun  and  wave, 

When  they  meet  at  night ; 

By  the  tear  that  shows 

When  passion  is  nigh, 
As  the  rain-drop  flows 

From  the  heat  of  the  sky ; 

By  the  first  love-beat 

Of  the  youthful  heart, 
By  the  bliss  to  meet, 

And  the  pain  to  part ; 


76  LALLA   ROOKH. 

By  all  that  thou  hast 

To  mortals  given, 
Which  —  oh,  could  it  last, 

This  earth  were  heaven, — 

We  call  thee  hither,  entrancing  Power ! 

Spirit  of  Love  !  Spirit  of  Bliss  ! 
Thy  holiest  time  is  the  moonlight  hour, 

And  there  never  was  moonlight  so  sweet  as  this. 


Impatient  of  a  scene  whose  luxuries  stole, 
Spite  of  himself,  too  deep  into  his  soul, 
And  where,  midst  all  that  the  young  heart  loves 

most  — 

Flowers,  music,  smiles  —  to  yield  was  to  be  lost, 
The  youth  had  started  up  and  turned  away 
From  the  light  nymphs,  and  their  luxurious  lay, 
To  muse  upon  the  pictures  that  hung  round, — 
Bright  images,  that  spoke  without  a  sound, 
And  views  like  vistas  into  fairy  ground. 
But  here  again  new  spells  came  o'er  his  sense : 
All  that  the  pencil's  mute  omnipotence 
Could  call  up  into  life,  of  soft  and  fair, 
Of  fond  and  passionate,  was  glowing  there ; 
Nor  yet  too  warm,  but  touch'd  with  that  fine  art 
Which  paints  of  pleasure  but  the  purer  part ; 
Which  knows  even  Beauty  when  half-veil'd  is  best,— 
Like  her  own  radient  planet  of  the  west, 
Whose  orb  when  half  retired  looks  loveliest 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     77 

There  hung  the  history  of  .the  Genii  King, 
Traced  through  each  gay  voluptuous  wandering 
With  her  from  Saba's  bowers,  in  whose  bright  eyes 
He  read  that  to  be  blest  is  to  be  wise  ; 
Here  fond  Zuleikawoos  with  open  arms 
The  Hebrew  boy,  who  flies  from  her  young  charms. 
Yet,  flying,  turns  to  gaze,  and,  half  undone, 
Wishes  that  Heaven  and  she  could  both  be  won; 
And  here  Mohammed,  born  for  love  and  guile, 
Forgets  the  Koran  in  his  Mary's  smile, — 
Then  beckons  some  kind  angel  from  above 
With  a  new  text  to  consecrate  their  love. 

With  rapid  step,  yet  pleased  and  lingering  eye, 
Did  the  youth  pass  these  pictured  stories  by, 
And  hasten'd  to  a  casement,  where  the  light 
Of  the  calm  moon  came  in,  and  freshly  bright 
The  fields  without  were  seen,  sleeping  as  still 
As  if  no  life  remain'd  in  breeze  or  rill. 
Here  paused  he,  while  the  music,  now  less  near, 
Breathed  with  a  holier  language  on  his  ear, 
As  though  the  distance,  and  that  heavenly  ray 
Through  which  the  sounds  came  floating,  took  away 
All  that  had  been  too  earthly  in  the  lay. 

Oh,  could  he  listen  to  such  sounds  unmoved, 
And  by  that  light,  nor  dream  of  her  he  loved? 
Dream  on,  unconscious  boy  !  while  yetthou  mayst; 
'T  is  the  last  bliss  thy  soul  shall  ever  taste. 


/8  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Clasp  yet  awhile  her  image  to  thy  heart, 
Ere  all  the  light  that  made  it  dear  depart. 
Think  of  her  smiles  as  when  thou  saw'st  them  last. 
Clear,  beautiful,  by  nought  of  earth  o'ercast ; 
Recall  her  tears,  to  thee  at  parting  given, 
Pure  as  they  weep,  if  angels  weep,  in  Heaven. 
Think,  in  her  own  still  bower  she  waits  thee  now, 
With  the  same  glow  of  heart  and  bloom  of  brow, 
Yet  shrined  in  solitude  —  thine  all,  thine  only, 
Like  the  one  star  above  thee,  bright  and  lonely. 
Oh,  that  a  dream  so  sweet,  so  long  enjoy 'd, 
Should  be  so  sadly,  cruelly  destroyed  ! 


The  song  is  hush'd,  the  laughing  nymphs   are 

flown, 

And  he  is  left,  musing  of  bliss,  alone  ;  — 
Alone? —  no,  not  alone  ;  that  heavy  sigh, 
That  sob  of  grief,  which  broke  from  some  one 

nigh  — 

Whose  could  it  be  ?  — alas  !  is  misery  found 
Here,  even  here,  on  this  enchanted  ground  ? 
He  turns,  and  sees  a  female  form,  close  veiled, 
Leaning,  as  if  both  heart  and  strength  had  fail'd, 
Against  a  pillar  near :  —  not  glittering  o'er 
With  gems  and  wreaths,  such  as  the  others  wore, 
But  in  that  deep-blue  melancholy  dress 
Bokhara's  maidens  wear  in  mindfulness 
Of  friends  or  kindred,  dead  or  far  away; 
And  such  as  Zelica  had  on  that  day 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     79 

He  left  her  —  when,  with  heart  too  full  to  speak, 
He  took  away  hei  last  warm  tears  upon  his  cheek. 

A  strange  emotion  stirs  within  him, —  more 
Than  mere  compassion  ever  waked  before ; 
Unconsciously  he  opes  his  arms,  while  she 
Springs  forward,  as  wifh  life's  last  energy, 
But,  swooning  in  that  one  convulsive  bound, 
Sinks,  ere  she  reach  his  arms,  upon  the  ground ; 
Her  veil  falls  off:  her  faint  hands  clasp  his  knees: 
1Tis  she  herself  !  —  'tis  Zelica  he  sees  ! 
But,  ah,  so  pale,  so  changed  —  none  but  a  lover 
Could  in  that  wreck  of  beauty's  shrine  discover 
The  once  adored  divinity, —  even  he 
Stood  for  some  moments  mute,  and  doubtingly 
Put  back  the  ringlets  from  her  brow,  and  gazed 
Upon  those  lids,  where  once  such  lustre  blazed, 
Ere  he  could  think  she  was  indeed  his  own, 
Own  darling  maid  whom  he  so  long  had  known 
In  joy  and  sorrow,  beautiful  in  both  ; 
Who,  even  when  grief  was  heaviest  —  when  loth 
He  left  her  for  the  wars  —  in  that  worst  hour 
Sat  in  her  sorrow  like  the  sweet  night-flower, 
When  darkness  brings  its  weeping  glories  out, 
And  spreads  its  sighs  like  frankincense  about. 

"  Look  up,  my  Zelica !  —  one  moment  show 
Those  gentle  eyes  to  me,  that  I  may  know 
Thy  life,  thy  loveliness  is  not  all  gone, 
But  there,  at  least,  shines  as  it  ever  shone. 


SO  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Come,  look  upon  thine  Azim,  —  one  dear  glance, 
Like  those  of  old,  were  heaven  !  whatever  chance 
Hath  brought  thee  here,  oh, 'twas  a  blessed  one! 
There  —  my  loved  lips  —  they  move ;  that  kiss  hath 

run 

Like  the  first  shoot  of  life  through  every  vein, 
And  now  I  clasp  her,  mine,  all  mine  again. 
Oh,  the  delight !  —  now,  in  this  very  hour, 
When  had  the  whole  rich  world  been  in  my  power 
I  should  have  singled  out  thee,  only  thee, 
From  the  whole  world's  collected  treasury  — 
To  have  thee  here  —  to  hang  thus  fondly  o'er 
My  own,  best,  purest  Zelica  once  more  ! " 


It  was  indeed  the  touch  of  those  fond  lips 
Upon  her  eyes  that  chased  their  short  eclipse  > 
And,  gradual  as  the  snow,  at  Heaven's  breath, 
Melts  off  and  shows  the  azure  flowers  beneath, 
Her  lids  unclosed,  and  the  bright  eyes  were  seen 
Gazing  on  his  —  not,  as  they  late  had  been, 
Quick,  restless,  wild,  but  mournfully  serene; 
As  if  to  lie,  even  for  that  tranced  minute, 
So  near  his  heart,  had  consolation  in  it ; 
And  thus  to  wake  in  his  beloved  caress 
Took  from  her  soul  one  half  its  wretchedness. 
But  when  she  heard  him  call  her  good  and  pure, 
Oh,  'twas  too  much  —  too  dreadful  to  endure  ! 
Shuddering,  she  broke  away  from  his  embrace, 
And,  hiding  with  both  hands  her  guilty  face, 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     8 1 

Said,  in  a  tone  whose  anguish  would  have  riven 
A  heart  of  very  marble,  "  Pure  !  —  O  Heaven  ! " 
That    tone  —  those     looks    so    changed  —  the 

withering  blight 

That  sin  and  sorrow  leave  where'er  they  light ; 
The  dead  despondency  of  those  sunk  eyes, 
Where  once  had  he  thus  met  her  by  surprise, 
He  would  have  seen  himself,  too  happy  boy, 
Reflected  in  a  thousand  lights  of  joy; 
And  then  the  place,  —  that  bright  unholy  place, 
Where  vice  lay  hid  beneath  each  winning  grace 
And  charm  of  luxury,  as  the  viper  weaves 
Its  wily  covering  of  sweet  balsam  leaves,  — 
All  struck  upon  his  heart  sudden  and  cold 
As  death  itself;  it  needs  not  to  be  told  — 
No,  no  —  he  sees  it  all,  plain  as  the  brand 
Of  burning  shame  can  mark  ;  whatever  the  hand 
That  could  from  Heaven  and  him  such  brightness 

sever, 

Tis  done  —  to  Heaven  and  him  she's  lost  forever ! 
It  was  a  dreadful  moment ;  not  the  tears, 
The  lingering,  lasting  misery  of  years, 
Could  match  that  minute's  anguish  ;  all  the  worst 
Of  sorrow's  elements  in  that  dark  burst 
Broke  o'er  his  soul,  and,  with  one  crash  of  fete, 
Laid  the  whole  hopes  of  his  life  desolate. 

"  Oh,  curse  me  not,"  she  cried,  as  wild  he  toss'd 
His  desperate  hand  toward   Heaven;  "tho'  I  aro 
lost, 


82  Z.ALLA   ROOKIl. 

Think  not  that  guilt,  that  falsehood  made  me  fall : 
No,  no  —  'twas  grief,  'twas  madness  did  it  all ! 
Nay,   doubt   me   not ;   though   all   thy  love   hath 

ceased  — 

I  know  it  hath — yet,  yet  believe,  at  least, 
That  every  spark  of  reason's  light  must  be 
Quench'd  in  this  brain,  ere  I  could  stray  from  thee  ! 
They  told  me  thou  wert  dead  —  why,  Azim,  why 
Did  we  not,  both  of  us,  that  instant  die 
When  we  were  parted?  Oh,  couldst  thou  but  know 
With  what  a  deep  devotedness  of  woe 
I  wept  thine  absence  —  o'er  and  o'er  again 
Thinking  of  thee,  still  thee,  till  thought  grew  pain, 
And  memory,  like  a  drop  that  night  and  day 
Falls  cold  and  ceaseless,  wore  my  heart  away. 
Didst  thou  but  know  how  pale  I  sat  at  home, 
Mine  eyes  still  turn'd  the  way  thou  wert  to  come, 
And,  all  the  long,  long  nights  of  hope  and  fear, 
Thy  voice  and  step  still  sounding  in  mine  ear  — 
O  God  !  thou  wouldst  not  wonder  that,  at  last, 
When  every  hope  was  all  at  once  o'ercast, 
When  I  heard  frightful  voices  round  me  say, 
Azim  is  dead!  —  this  wretched  brain  gave  way, 
And  I  became  a  wreck,  at  random  driven, 
Without  one  glimpse  of  reason  or  of  Heaven  — 
All  wild  —  and  even  this  quenchless  love  within 
Turn'd  to  foul  fires  to  light  me  into  sin ! 
Thou  pitiest    me  —  I    knew  thou    wouldst  —  that 

sky 
Hath  nought  beneath  it  half  so  lorn  as  I. 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     83 

The  fiend  who  lured  me  hither  —  hist !  come  near, 

Or  thou  too,  thou  art  lost,  if  he  should  hear  — 

Told  me  such  things  —  oh,  with  such  devilish  art 

As  would  have  ruin'd  even  a  holier  heart  — 

Of  thee,  and  of  that  ever-radiant  sphere, 

Where  blest  at  length,  if  I  but  served  //////  here, 

I  should  forever  live  in  thy  dear  sight, 

And  drink  from  those  pure  eyes  eternal  light. 

Think,  think  how  lost,  how  madden'd  I  must  be, 

To  hope  that  guilt  could  lead  to  God  or  thee ! 

Thou  weep'st  for  me  —  do  weep!  oh,  that  I  durst 

Kiss  off  that  tear  !  but,  no  —  these  lips  are  curst, 

They  must  not  touch  thee ;  —  one  divine  caress, 

One  blessed  moment  of  forgetfulness 

I've  had  within  those  arms,  and  that  shall  lie, 

Shrined  in  my  soul's  deep  memory  till  I  die ; 

The  last  of  joy's  last  relics  here  below, 

The  one  sweet  drop,  in  all  this  waste  of  woe, 

My  heart  has  treasured  from  affection's  spring, 

To  sooth  and  cool  its  deadly  withering ! 

But  thou  —  yes,  thou  must  go  —  forever  go ; 

This  place  is  not  for  thee  —  for  thee  !  oh,  no ! 

Did  I  but  tell  the  half,  thy  tortured  brain 

Would  burn  like  mine,  and  mine  grow  wild  again ! 

Enough,  that  Guilt  reigns  here — that  hearts,  once 

good, 

Now  tainted,  chill'd,  and  broken,  are  his  food ; 
Enough,  that  we  are  parted  —  that  their  rolls 
A  flood  of  headlong  fate  between  our  souls, 
Whose  darkness  severs  me  as  wide  from  thee 
As  Hell  from  Heaven,  to  all  eternity ! " 


84  LALLA   ROOKH. 

"  Zelica,  ZelicaP'the  youth  exclaim'd, 
In  all  the  tortures  of  a  mind  inflamed 
Almost  to  madness  —  "  by  that  sacred  Heaven, 
Where  yet,  if  prayers  can  move,  thou'lt  be  forgive* 
As  thou  art  here  —  here,  in  this  writhing  heart, 
All  sinful,  wild,  and  ruinM  as  thou  art! 
By  the  remembrance  of  our  once  pure  love, 
Which,  like  a  churchyard  light,  still  burns  at>ove 
The  grave  of  our  lost  souls  —  which  guilt  in  thee 
Cannot  extinguish,  nor  despair  in  me,  — 
I  do  conjure,  implore  the»  to  fly  hence  ! 
If  thou  host  yet  one  spark  of  innocence 
Fly  with  me  from  this  place  "  — 


"With  thee?  oh,  blist! 

'Tis  worth  whole  years  of  torment  to  hear  this  ! 
What  !  take  the  lost  one  with  thee  ?  —  let  her  rove 
By  thy  dear  side,  as  in  those  days  of  love 
When  we  were  both  so  happy,  both  so  pure?  — 
Too  heavenly  dream  !  if  there's  on  earth  a  cure 
For  the  sunk  heart,  His  this  —  day  after  day 
To  be  the  blest  companion  of  thy  way ; 
To  hear  thine  angel  eloquence  —  to  see 
Those  virtuous  eyes  forever  turn'd  on  me ; 
And,  in  their  light  re-chasten'd  silently, 
Like  the  stain'd  web  that  whitens  in  the  sun, 
Grow  pure  by  being  purely  shone  upon ! 
And  thou  wilt  pray  for  me  — I  know  thou  wilt  — 
At  the  dim  vesper  hour,  when  thoughts  of  guilt 


Copyrighted  by  S.  E.  Casein 


Lalla  Rookh    I 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KIIORASSAN.     8$ 

Come  heaviest  o'er  the  heart,  thou'lt  lift  thine  eyes 
Full  of  sweet  tears,  unto  the  darkening  skies, 
And  plead  for  me  with  Heaven,  till  I  can  dare 
To  fix  my  own  weak  sinful  glances  there  ; 
Till  the  good  angels,  when  they  see  me  cling 
Forever  near  thee,  pale  and  sorrowing, 
Shall  for  thy  sake  pronounce  my  soul  forgiven, 
And  bid  thee  take  thy  weeping  slave  to  Heaven ! 
Oh,  yes,  1  '11  fly  with  thee  "  — 


Scarce  had  she  said 
These  breathless  words,  when   a  voice  deep  and 

dread 

As  that  of  Monker,  waking  up  the  dead 
From  their  first  sleep  —  so  startling  'twas  to  both  — 
Rung  through  the  casement   near:  "Thine  oath! 

thine  oath  ! " 

0  Heaven,  the  ghastliness  of  that  maid's  look ! 
"  'Tis  he  !"  faintly  she  cried,  while  terror  shook 
Her  inmost  core,  nor  durst  she  lift  her  eyes, 
Tho'  thro'  the  casement  now  nought  but  the  skies 
And  moonlit  fields  were  seen,  calm  as  before,  — 
"'Tis  he   and  I  am  his  —  all,  all  is  o'er! 

Go  —  fly  this  instant,  or  thou'rt  ruin'd  too  — 
Mine  oath,  mine  oath !  O  God  !  'tis  all  too  true ! 
True  as  the  worm  in  this  cold  heart  it  is  — 

1  am  Mokanna's  bride  —  his,  Azim,  his  ! 

The  Dead  stood  round  us,  while  I  spoke  that  vow ; 
Their  blue  lips  echoed  it  —  I  hear  them  now ! 


86  LALLA  ROOKH. 

Their  eyes  glared  on  me  while  I  pledged  that  bowl : 
'Twas  burning  blood  —  I  feel  it  in  my  soul ! 
And  the  Veil'd  Bridegroom  —  hist !    I've  seen  to- 
night 

What  angels  know  not  of —  so  foul  a  sight, 
So  horrible  —  oh,  never  may'st  thou  see 
What  there  lies  hid  from  all  but  hell  and  me  ! 
But  I  must  hence  —  off,  off!  I  am  not  thine, 
Nor  Heaven's,  nor  Love's,  nor  aught  that  is  divine  ! 
Hold  me  not  —  ha!  think'st  thou  the  fiends  that 

sever 

Hearts,  cannot  sunder  hands?  —  thus,  then  —  for- 
ever ! " 

With  all  that  strength  which  madness  lends  the 

weak, 

She  flung  away  his  arm  ;  and  with  a  shriek 
Whose  sound,  though  he  should  linger  out  more 

years 

Than  wretch  e'er  told,  can  never  leave  his  ears  — 
Flew  up  through  that  long  avenue  of  light, 
Fleetly  as  some  dark  ominous  bird  of  night 
Across  the  sun,  and  soon  was  out  of  sight ! 

LALLA  ROOKH  could  think  of  nothing  all  day 
but  the  misery  of  these  two  young  lovers.  H.r 
gayety  was  gone,  and  she  looked  pensively  even 
upon  Fadladeen.  She  felt,  too,  without  knowing 
why,  a  sort  of  uneasy  pleasure  in  imagining  that 
Azim  must  have  been  just  such  a  youth  as  Fera- 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KIIORAsSAfr.     8/ 

morz ;  just  as  worthy  to  enjoy  all  the  blessings, 
without  any  of  the  pangs,  of  that  illusive  passion 
which  too  often,  like  the  sunny  apples  of  Istkahar, 
is  all  sweetness  on  one  side,  and  all  bitterness  on 
the  other. 

As  they  passed  along  a  sequestered  river  after 
sunset,  they  saw  a  young  Hindoo  girl  upon  the 
bank,  whose  employment  seemed  to  them  so 
strange  that  they  stopped  their  palankeens  to  observe 
her.  She  had  lighted  a  small  lamp,  filled  with  oil 
of  cocoa,  and,  placing  it  in  an  earthen  dish, 
adorned  with  a  wreath  of  flowers,  had  committed  it 
with  a  trembling  hand  to  the  stream  ;  and  was  now 
anxiously  watching  its  progress  down  the  current, 
heedless  of  the  gay  cavalcade  which  had  drawn  up 
beside  her.  Lalla  Rookh  was  all  curiosity  ;  — when 
one  of  her  attendants,  who  had  lived  upon  the  banks 
of  the  Ganges  (where  this  ceremony  is  so  freqient, 
that  often,  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  the  river  is 
seen  glittering  all  over  with  lights,  like  the  Oton- 
tala,  or  Sea  of  Stars) ,  informed  the  Princess  that  it 
was  the  usual  way  in  which  the  friends  of  those 
who  had  gone  on  dangerous  voyages  offered  up  vows 
for  their  safe  return.  If  the  lamp  sunk  immediately, 
the  omen  was  disastrous ;  but  if  it  went  shining 
down  the  stream,  and  continued  to  burn  until 
entirely  out  of  sight,  the  return  of  the  beloved  object 
was  considered  as  certain. 

Lalla  Rookh,  as  they  moved  on,  more  than  once 
looked  back  to  observe  how  the  young  Hindoo's 


88  LALLA   ROOKH. 

lamp  proceeded ;  and,  while  she  saw  with  pleasure 
that  it  was  still  unextinguished,  she  could  not  help 
fearing  that  all  the  hopes  of  this  life  were  no  better 
than  that  feeble  light  upon  the  river.  The  re- 
mainder of  the  journey  was  passed  in  silence.  She 
now,  for  the  first  time,  felt  that  shade  of  melancholy 
which  comes  over  the  youthful  maiden's  heart,  as 
sweet  and  transient  as  her  own  breath  upon  a  mirror ; 
nor  was  it  till  she  heard  the  lute  of  Feramorz, 
touched  lightly  at  the  door  of  her  pavilion,  that  she 
waked  from  the  reverie  in  which  she  had  been 
wandering.  Instantly  her  eyes  were  lighted  up 
with  pleasure ;  and  after  a  few  unheard  remarks 
from  Fadladeen,  upon  the  indecorum  of  a  poet 
seating  himself  in  presence  of  a  Princess,  everything 
was  arranged  as  on  the  preceding  evening,  and  all 
listened  with  eagerness,  while  the  story  was  thus 
continued :  — 

WHOSE  are  the  gilded  tents  that  crowd  the  way, 
Where  all  was  waste  and  silent  yesterday? 
This  City  of  War,  which,  in  a  few  short  hours, 
Hath  sprung  up  here,  as  if  the  magic  powers 
Of  Him  who,  in  the  twinkling  of  a  star, 
Built  the  high  pillar'd  halls  of  Chilminar, 
Had  conjured  up,  far  as  the  eye  can  see, 
This  world  of  tents,  and  domes,  and   sun-bright 

armory : 

Princely  pavilions,  screen'd  by  many  a  fold 
Of  crimson  cloth,  and  topp'd  with  balls  of  gold; 


VEILED   PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     89 

Steeds,  with  their  housings  of  rich  silver  spun, 
Their  chains  and  poitrels,  glittering  in  the  sun ; 
And  camels,  tufted  o'er  with  Yemen's  shells, 
Shaking  in  every  breeze  their  light-toned  bells ! 


But  yester-eve,  so  motionless  aroun 
So  mute  was  this  wide  plain,  that  not  a  sound 
But  the  far  torrent,  or  the  locust  bird 
Hunting  among  the  thickets,  could  be  heard  ;  — 
Yet  hark  !  what  discords  now,  of  every  kind  ! 
Shouts,  laughs,  and  screams,  are  revelling  in  the 

wind ; 

The  neigh  of  cavalry ;  the  tinkling  throngs 
Of  laden  camels  and  their  drivers'  songs  ; 
Ringing  of  arms,  and  flapping  in  the  breeze 
Of  streamers  from  ten  thousand  canopies  ; 
War  music,  bursting  out  from  time  to  time, 
With  gong  and  tymbalon's  tremendous  chime ; 
Or,  in  the  pause,  when  harsher  sounds  are  mute* 
The  mellow  breathings  of  some  horn  or  flute, 
That  far  off,  broken  by  the  eagle  note 
Of  the  Abyssinian  trumpet,  swell  and  float. 

Who  leads  this  mighty  army  ?  —  ask  ye  who? 
And  mark  ye  not  those  banners  of  dark  hue, 
The  Night  and  Shadow,  over  yonder  tent? 
It  is  the  Caliph's  glorious  armament. 
Roused  in  his  Palace  by  the  dread  alarms, 
That  hourly  came,  of  the  false  Prophet's  arms, 


9O  LALLA   ROOKH. 

And  of  his  host  of  infidels,  who  hurl'd 
Defiance  fierce  at  Islam  and  the  world,  — 
Though  worn  with  Grecian  warfare,  and  behind 
The  veils  of  his  bright  Palace  calm  reclined, 
Yet  brook'd  he  not  such  blasphemy  should  stain, 
Thus  unrevenged,  the  evening  of  his  reign ; 
But,  having  sworn  upon  the  Holy  Grave 
To  conquer  or  to  perish,  once  more  gave 
His  shadowy  banners  proudly  to  the  breeze, 
And  with  an  army  nursed  in  victories, 
Here  stands  to  crush  the  rebels  that  o'errun 
His  blest  and  beauteous  Province  of  the  Sun. 


Ne'er  did  the  march  of  Mahadi  display 
Such  pomp  before ;  —  not  even  when  on  his  way 
To  Mecca's  Temple,  wlien  both  land  and  sea 
Were  spoil'd  to  feed  the  Pilgrim's  luxury ; 
When  round  him,  'mid  the  burning  sands,  he  saw 
Fruits  of  the  North  in  icy  freshness  thaw, 
And  cool'd  his  thirsty  lip,  beneath  the  glow 
Of  Mecca's  sun,  with  urns  of  Persian  snow ; 
Nor  e'er  did  armament  more  grand  than  that 
Pour  from  the  kingdoms  of  the  Caliphat. 
First,  in  the  van,  the  People  of  the  Rock, 
On  their  light  mountain  steeds,  of  royal  stock; 
Then,  chieftains  of  Damascus,  proud  to  see 
The  flashing  of  their  swords'  rich  marquetry ; 
Men  from  the  regions  near  the  Volga's  mouth 
Mix'd  with  the  rude  black  archers  of  the  South ; 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.    91 

And  Indian  lancers,  in  white-turban'd  ranks, 
From  the  far  Sinde,  or  Attock's  sacred  banks, 
With  dusky  legions  from  the  land  of  Myrrh, 
And  many  a  mace-arnVd  Moor  and  Mid-sea  islander. 


Nor  less  in  number,  though  more  new  and  rude 
In  warfare's  school,  was  the  vast  multitude 
That,  fired  by  zeal,  or  by  oppression  wrong'd, 
Round  the  white  standard  of  the  Impostor  throng'd ; 
Beside  his  thousands  of  Believers  —  blind, 
Burning  and  headlong  as  the  Samiel  wind  — 
Many  who  felt  and  more  who  fear'd  to  feel 
The  bloody  Islamite's  converting  steel, 
Flock'd  to  his  banner :  Chiefs  of  the  Uzbek  race, 
Waving  their  heron  crests  with  martial  grace  ; 
Turkomans,  countless  as  their  flocks,  led  forth 
From  the  aromatic  pastures  of  the  North ; 
Wild  warriors  of  the  turquoise  hills,  —  and  those 
Who  dwell  beyond  the  everlasting  snows 
Of  Hindoo  Kosh,  in  stormy  freedom  bred, 
Their  fort  the  rock,  their  camp  the  torrent's  bed. 
But  none,  of  all  who  own'd  the  Chiefs  command, 
Rush'd  to  that  battle-field  with  bolder  hand, 
Or  sterner  hate,  than  Iran's  outlaw'd  men, 
Her  Worshippers  of  Fire,  —  all  panting  then 
For  vengeance  on  the  accursed  Saracen, — 
Vengeance  at  last  for  their  dear  country  spurn'd, 
Her  throne  usurp'd,  and  her  bright  shrines  o'er- 
turn'd. 


92  LALLA   ROOKH. 

From  Yezd's  eternal  Mansion  of  the  Fire, 
Where  aged  saints  in  dreams  of  Heaven  expire ; 
From  Badku,  and  those  fountains  of  blue  flame 
That  burn  in  the  Caspian,  fierce  they  came, 
Careless  for  what  or  whom  the  blow  was  sped, 
So  vengeance  triumph'd,  and  their  tyrants  bled. 

Such  was  the  wild  and  miscellaneous  host 
That  high  in  air  their  motley  banners  tost 
Around  the  Prophet-Chief —  all  eyes  still  bent 
Upon  that  glittering  Veil,  where'er  it  went, 
That  beacon  through  the  battle's  stormy  flood, 
That  rainbow  of  the  field,  whose  showers  were  blood. 

Twice  hath  the  sun  upon  their  conflict  set, 
And  risen  again,  and  found  them  grappling  yet ; 
While  streams  of  carnage,  in  the  noontide  blaze, 
Smoke  up  to  Heaven —  hot  as  that  crimson  haze 
By  which  the  prostrate  Caravan  is  awed, 
In  the  red  Desert,  when  the  wind's  abroad. 
"  On,  Swords  of  God  !  "  the  panting  Caliph  calls,  — 
"Thrones   for  the  living  —  Heaven  for   him  who 

falls ! " 

"  On,  brave  avengers,  on  !  "  Mokanna  cries, 
"  And  Eblis  blast  the  recreant  slave  that  flies !  " 
Now  comes  the  brunt,  the  crisis  of  the  day : 
They  clash,  they  strive,  the  Caliph's  troops  give 

way ! 

Mokanna's  self  plucks  the  black  Banner  down, 
And  now  the  Orient  World's  Imperial  Crown 


VEILED   PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     93 

Is  just  within  its  grasp —  when,  hark  !  that  shout! 

Some  hand  hath  check'd  the  flying  Moslem's  rout ; 

And  now  they  turn,  they  rally  —  at  their  head 

A  warrior  (like  those  angel  youths  who  led, 

In  glorious  panoply  of  heaven's  own  mail, 

The  Champions  of  the  Faith  through  Beder's  vale). 

Bold  as  if  gifted  with  ten  thousand  lives, 

.Turns  on  the  fierce  pursuers'  blades,  and  drives 

At  once  the  multitudinous  torrent  back, 

While  hope  and  courage  kindle  in  his  track ; 

And,  at  each  step,  his  bloody  falchion  makes 

Terrible  vistas  through  which  victory  breaks ! 

In  vain  Mokanna,  'midst  the  general  flight, 

Stands,  like  the  red  moon  on  some  stormy  night. 

Among  the  fugitive  clouds  that,  hurrying  by, 

Leave  only  her  unshaken  in  the  sky ; 

In  vain  he  yells  his  desperate  curses  out, 

Deals  death  promiscuously  to  all  about  — 

To  foes  that  charge  and  coward  friends  that  fly, 

And  seems  of  all  the  Great  Arch-enemy. 

The  panic  spreads.     "  A  miracle  ! "  throughout 

The  Moslem  ranks,  "  a  miracle  ! "  they  shout, 

All  gazing  on  that  youth,  whose  coming  seems 

A  light,  a  glory,  such  as  breaks  in  dreams  ; 

And  every  sword,  true  as  o'er  billows  dim 

The  needle  tracks  the  lodestar,  following  him ! 

Right  towards  Mokanna  now  he  cleaves  his  path, 
Impatient  cleaves,  as  though  the  bolt  of  wrath 
He  bears  from  Heaven  withheld  its  awful  burst 


94  LALLA   ROOKH. 

From  weaker  heads,  and  souls  but  half-way  curst, 
To  break  o'er  Him,  the  mightiest  and  the  worst! 
But  vain  his  speed  —  though,  in  that  hour  of  blood, 
Had  all  God's  seraphs  round  Mokanna  stood, 
With  swords  of  fire,  ready  like  fate  to  fall, 
Mokanna's  soul  would  have  defied  them  all ; 
Yet  now  the  rush  of  fugitives,  too  strong 
For  human  force,  hurries  even  him  along ; 
In  vain  he  struggles  'mid  the  wedged  array 
Of  flying  thousands  —  he  is  borne  away ; 
And  the  sole  joy  his  baffled  spirit  knows, 
In  this  forced  flight,  is  —  murdering  as  he  goes  ! 
As  a  grim  tiger,  whom  the  torrent's  might 
Surprises  in  some  parch'd  ravine  at  night, 
Turns,  even  in  drowning,  on  the  wretched  flocks, 
Swept  with  him  in  that  snow-flood  from  the  rocks, 
And,  to  the  last,  devouring  on  his  way, 
Bloodies  the  stream  he  hath  not  power  to  stay. 


"  Alia  ilia  Alia  I"  —  the  glad  shout  renew  — 
"  Alia  Akbar  ! "  — the  Caliph's  in  Merou. 
Hang  out  your  gilded  tapestry  in  the  streets, 
And  light  your  shrines  and  chant  your  ziraleets. 
The  swords  of  God  have  triumph'd  —  on  his  throne 
Your  Caliph  sits,  and  the  Veil'd  Chief  hath  flown. 
Who  does  not  envy  that  young  warrior  now 
To  whom  the  Lord  of  Islam  bends  his  brow, 
In  all  the  graceful  gratitude  of  power, 
For  his  throne's  safety  in  that  perilous  hour? 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     95 

Who  doth  not  wonder,  when,  amidst  the  acclaim 
Of  thousands,  heralding  to  Heaven  his  name, 
'Mid  all  those  holier  harmonies  of  fame 
Which  sounds  along  the  path  of  virtuous  souls, 
Like  music  round  a  planet  as  it  rolls,  — 
He  turns  away  —  coldly,  as  if  some  gloom 
Hung  o'er  his  heart  no  triumphs  can  illume,  — 
Some  sightless  grief,  upon  whose  blasted  gaze 
Though  Glory's  light  may  play,  in  vain  it  plays? 
Yes,  wretched  Azim  !  thine  is  such  a  grief, 
Beyond  all  hope,  all  terror,  all  relief; 
A  dark,  cold  calm,  which  nothing  now  can  break. 
Or  warm  or  brighten —  like  the  Syrian  Lake, 
Upon  whose  surface  morn  and  summer  shed 
Their  smiles  in  vain,  for  all  beneath  is  dead !  — 
Hearts  there  have  been,  o'er  which  this  weight  of 

woe 

Came  by  long  use  of  suffering,  tame  and  slow ; 
But  thine,  lost  youth  !  was  sudden  —  over  thee 
It  broke  at  once,  when  all  seem'd  ecstasy; 
When  Hope  look'd  up,  and  saw  the  gloomy  Past 
Malt  into  splendor,  and  Bliss  dawn  at  last  — 
'Tvvas  then,  even  then,  o'er  joys  so  freshly  blown, 
This  mortal  blight  of  misery  came  down ; 
Even  then,  the  full,  warm  gushings  of  thy  heart 
Were   check'd  —  like  fount-drops,  frozen  as   they 

start ; 

And  there,  like  them,  cold,  sunless  relics  hang, 
Kach  fix'd  and  chill'd  into  a  lasting  pang. 


9<5  LALLA   ROOKH. 

One  sole  desire,  one  passion  now  remains 
To  keep  life's  fever  still  within  his  veins,  — 
Vengeance  !  —  dire  vengeance  on  the  wretch  who 

cast 

O'er  him  and  all  he  loved  that  ruinous  blast. 
For  this,  when  rumors  reach'd  him  in  his  flight 
Far,  far  away,  after  that  fatal  night, 
Rumors  of  armies  thronging  to  the  attack 
Of  the  Veil'd  Chief  —  for  this  he  wing'd  him  back, 
Fleet  as  the  vulture  speeds  to  flags  unfurl'd, 
And,  when  all  hope  seem'd  desperate,  wildly  hurl'd 
Himself  into  the  scale,  and  saved  a  world. 
For  this  he  still  lives  on,  careless  of  all 
The  wreaths  that  Glory  on  his  path  lets  fall ; 
For  this  alone  exists  —  like  lightning-fire, 
To  speed  one  bolt  of  vengeance,  and  expire ! 

But  safe  as  yet  that  Spirit  of  Evil  lives ; 
With  a  small  band  of  desperate  fugitives, 
The  last  sole  stubborn  fragment,  left  unriven, 
Of  the  proud  host  that  late  stood  fronting  Heaven, 
He    gain'd    Merou  —  breathed     a  short  curse  of 

blood 
O'er    his  lost  throne  —  then  pass'd     the    Jihon's 

flood, 

And  gathering  all  whose  madness  of,  belief 
Still  saw  a  Saviour  in  their  down-fallen  Chief, 
Raised  the  white  banner  within  Neksheb's  gates, 
And  there,   untamed,  the  approaching  conqueror 

waits. 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     9? 

Of  all  his  Haram,  all  that  busy  hive, 
With  music  and  with  sweets  sparkling  alive, 
He  took  but  one,  the  partner  of  his  flight, 
One  —  not  for  love,  not  for  her  beauty's  light; 
No,  Zelica  stood  withering  'midst  the  gay, 
Wan  as  the  blossom  that  fell  yesterday 
From  the  Alma  tree  and  dies,  while  overhead 
To-day's  young  flower  is  springing  in  its  stead. 
Oh,  not  for  love  —  the  deepest  Damn'd  must  be 
Touch'd  with  Heaven's  glory,  ere  such  fiends  as  he 
Can  feel  one  glimpse  of  Love's  divinity  ! 
But  no,  she  is  his  victim ;  there  lie  all 
Her  charms  for  him  —  charms  that  can  never  pall, 
As  long  as  Hell  within  his  heart  can  stir, 
Or  one  faint  trace  of  Heaven  is  lef:  in  her. 
To  work  an  angel's  ruin,  to  behold 
As  white  a  page  as  Virtue  e'er  unroM'd 
Blacken,  beneath  his  touch,  into  a  scroll 
Of  damning  sins,  seal'd  with  a  burning  soul:  — 
This  is  his  triumph  ;  this  the  joy  accirst, 
That  ranks  him  among  demons  all  but  first : 
This  gives  the  victim  that  before  him  ies, 
Blighted  and  lost,  a  glory  in  his  eyes, 
A  light  like  that  with  which  hell-fire  i!lu-nes 
The  ghastly  writhing  wretch  whom  it  coisumes  I 

But  other  tasks  now  wait  him  —  tasks  that  need 
All  the  deep  daringness  of  thought  and  deed 
With  which  the  Dives  have  gifted  him,  —  formark» 
Over  yon  plains,  which  night  had  else  made 


98  LALLA  ROOKH. 

Those  lanterns,  countless  as  the  winged  lights 
That  spangle  India's  fields  on  showery  nights; 
Far  as  their  formidable  gleams  they  shed, 
The  mighty  tents  of  the  beleaguerer  spread, 
Glimmering  along  the  horizon's  dusky  line, 
And  thence  in  nearer  circles  till  they  shine 
Among  the  founts  and  groves  o'er  which  the  town 
In  all  its  arm'd  magnificence  looks  down. 
Yet,  fearless,  from  his  lofty  battlements 
Mokanna  views  :hat  multitude  of  tents,  — 
Nay,  smiles  to  trunk  that,  though  entoil'd,  beset, 
Not  less  than  myriads  dare  to  front  him  yet ; 
That  friendless,  throneless,  he  thus  stands  at  bay, 
Even  thus  a  mat:h  for  myriads  such  as  they. 
"Oh,  for  a  sweep  of  that  dark  Angel's  wing 
Who  brush'd  the  thousands  of  the  Assyrian  King 
To  darkness  in  a  moment,  that  I  might 
People  Hell's  chambers  with  yon  host  to-night ! 
But  come  wha:  may,  let  who  will  grasp  the  throne, 
Caliph  or  Prophet,  Man  alike  shall  groan ; 
Let  who  will  torture  him —  Priest,  Caliph,  King — . 
Alike  this  loithsome  world  of  his  shall  ring 
With     victims'     shrieks      and     howlings    of     the 

slave,  — 

Sounds  tlat  shall  glad  me  even  within  my  grave!" 
Thus  to  iiaiself ;  but  to  the  scanty  train 
Still  left  around  him,  a  far  different  strain  :  — 
"  Glorious  Defenders  of  the  sacred  Crown 
I  bear  from  Heaven,  whose  light  nor  blood  shall 

drown 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.     99 

Nor  shadow  of  earth  eclipse,  —  before  whose  gems 
The  paly  pomp  of  this  world's  diadems, 
The  crown  of  Gerashid,  the  pillar'd  throne 
Of  Parviz,  and  the  heron  crest  that  shone 
Magnificent  o'er  Ali's  beauteous  eyes, 
Fade  like  the  stars  when  morn  is  in  the  skies,  — 
Warriors,  rejoice  —  the  port  to  which  we've  pass'd. 
O'er  Destiny's  dark  wave,  beams  out  at  last ! 
Victory's  our  own  —  'tis  written  in  that  Book 
Upon  whose  leaves  none  but  the  angels  look, 
That  Islam's  sceptre  shall  beneath  the  power 
Of  her  great  foe  fall  broken  in  that  hour, 
When  the  moon's  mighty  orb,  before  all  eyes, 
From  Neksheb's  Holy  Well  portentously  shall  rise ! 
Now  turn  and  see  !  "  — 

They  turn'd,  and,  as  he  spoke, 
A  sudden  splendor  all  around  them  broke, 
And  they  beheld  an  orb,  ample  and  bright, 
Rise  from  the  Holy  Well  and  cast  its  light 
Round  the  rich  city  and  the  plain  for  miles, 
Flinging  such  radiance  o'er  the  gilded  tiles 
Of  many  a  dome  and  fair-roof 'd  minaret 
As  autumn  suns  shed  round  them  when  they  set. 
Instant,  from  all  who  saw  the  illusive  sign, 
A  murmur  broke  —  "  Miraculous  !  divine  ! " 
The  Gheber  bow'd,  thinking  his  idol  star 
Had  waked  and  burst  impatient  through  the  bar 
Of  midnight,  to  inflame  him  to  the  war ; 
While  he  of  Moussa's  creed  saw,  in  that  ray, 
The  glorious  Light  which,  in  his  freedom's  day, 


TOO  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Had  rested  on  the  Ark,  and  now  again 
Shone  out  to  bless  the  breaking  of  his  chain. 

"  To  victory  ! "  is  at  once  the  cry  of  all  — 
Nor  stands  Mokanna  loitering  at  that  call ; 
But  instant  the  huge  gates  are  flung  aside, 
And  forth,  like  a  diminutive  mountain-tide 
Into  the  boundless  sea,  they  speed  their  course 
Right  on  into  the  Moslem's  mighty  force. 
The  watchmen  of  the  camp,  who,  in  their  rounds, 
Had  paused,  and  even  forgot  the  punctual  sounds 
Of  the  small  drum  with  which  they  count  the  night, 
To  gaze  upon  that  supernatural  light, 
Now  sink  beneath  an  unexpected  arm, 
And  in  a  death-groan  give  their  last  alarm. 
"  On  for  the  lamps  that  light  yon  lofty  screen, 
Nor  blunt  your  blades  with  massacre  so  mean  ; 
There  rests  the  Caliph  :  speed :  one  lucky  lance 
May  now  achieve  mankind's  deliverance." 
Desperate  the  die  —  such  as  they  only  cast 
Who  venture  for  a  world,  and  stake  their  last. 
But  Fate's  no  longer  with  him,  —  blade  for  blade 
Springs  up  to  meet  them  thro'  the  glimmering  shade, 
And,  as  the  clash  is  heard,  new  legions  soon 
Pour  to  the  spot,  like  bees  of  Kauzeroon 
To  the  shrill  timbril's  summon's,  —  till  at  length 
The  mighty  camp  swarms  out  in  all  its  strength, 
And  back  to  Neksheb's  gates,  covering  the  plain 
With  random   slaughter,  drives   the    adventurous 
train : 


Copyrighted  by  S.  E.  Caseino. 


Lalla  Rookh    a 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.    IOI 

Among  the  last  of  whom  the  Silver  Veil 
Is  seen  glittering  at  times,  like  the  white  sail 
Of  some  toss'd  vessel  on  a  stormy  night, 
Catching  the  tempest's  momentary  light ! 

And  hath  not  this  brought  the  proud  spirit  low  ? 
Nor  dash'd  his  brow,  nor  check'd  his  daring  ?    No. 
Though  half  the  wretches  whom  at  night  he  led 
To  thrones  and  victory  lie  disgraced  and  dead, 
Yet  morning  hears  him,  with  unshrinking  crest, 
Still  vaunt  of  thrones  and  victory  to  the  rest. 
And  they  believe  him  ! —  oh,  the  lover  may 
Distrust  that  look  which  steals  his  soul  away ; 
The  babe  may  cease  to  think  that  it  can  play 
With  Heaven's  rainbow ;  alchymists  may  doubt 
The  shining  gold  their  crucible  gives  out ; 
But  Faith,  fanatic  Faith,  once  wedded  fast 
To  some  dear  falsehood,  hugs  it  to  the  last. 

And  well  the  Impostor  knew  all  lures  and  arts 
That  Lucifer  e'er  taught  to  tangle  hearts  ; 
Nor,  'mid  these  last  bold  workings  of  his  plot 
Against  men's  souls,  is  Zelica  forgot. 
Ill-fated  Zelica  !  had  reason  been 
Awake  through  half  the  horrors  thou  hast  seen, 
Thou  never  couldst  have  borne  it :  Death  had  come 
At  once,  and  taken  thy  wrung  spirit  home. 
But  'twas  not  so,  —  a  torpor,  a  suspense 
Of  thought,  almost  of  life,  came  o'er  the  intense 
D 


102  LALLA   ROOKH. 

And  passionate  struggles  of  that  fearful  night, 
When  her  last  hope  of  peace  and  heaven  took  flight : 
And  though,  at  times,  a  gleam  of  frenzy  broke,  — 
As  through  some  dull  volcano's  veil  of  smoke 
,  Ominous  flashings  now  and  then  will  start, 
Which  show  the  fire's  still  busy  at  its  heart,  — 
Yet  was  she  mostly  wrapp'd  in  solemn  gloom ; 
Not  such  as  Azinrs,  brooding  o'er  its  doom, 
And  calm  without  as  is  the  brow  of  death, 
While  busy  worms  are  gnawing  underneath, 
But  in  a  blank  and  pulseless  torpor,  free 
From  thought  or  pain,  a  seal'd-up  apathy, 
Which  left  her  oft,  with  scarce  one  living  thrill, 
The  cold  pale  victim  of  her  torturer's  will. 

Again,  as  in  Merou,  he  had  her  deck'd 
Gorgeously  out,  the  Priestess  of  the  sect ; 
And  led  her  glittering  forth  before  the  eyes 
Of  his  rude  train,  as  to  a  sacrifice,  — 
Pallid  as  she,  the  young  devoted  Bride 
Of  the  fierce  Nile,  when,  deck'd  in  all  the  pride 
Of  nuptial  pomp,  she  sinks  into  his  tide. 
And  while  the  wretched  maid  hung  down  her  head 
And  stood,  as  one  just  risen  from  the  dead, 
Amid  that  gazing  crowd,  the  fiend  would  tell        , 
His  credulous  slaves  it  was  some  charm  or  spell 
Possess'd  her  now,  —  and  from  that  darkened  trance 
Should  dawn  ere  long  their  Faith's  deliverance ; 
Or  if,  at  times,  goaded  by  guilty  shame, 
Her  soul  was  roused,  and  words  of  wildness  came, 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.    1 03 

Instant  the  bold  blasphemer  would  translate 
Her  ravings  into  oracles  of  fate, — 
Would  hail  Heaven's  signals  in  her  flashing  eyes, 
And  call  her  shrieks  the  language  of  the  skies ! 


But  vain  at  length  his  arts :  —  despair  is  seen 
Gathering  around,  and  famine  comes  to  glean 
All  that  the  sword  had  left  unreap'd  :  —  in  vain 
At  morn  and  eve  across  the  northern  plain 
He  looks  impatient  for  the  promised  spears 
Of  the  wild  Hordes  and  Tartar  mountaineers  : 
They  come  not  —  while  his  fierce  beleaguerers  pour 
Engines  of  havoc  in,  unknown  before, 
And  horrible  as  new:  javelins,  that  fly 
Enwreathed  with  smoky  flames  thro'  the  dark  sky, 
And  red-hot  globes,  that,  opening  as  they  mount, 
Discharge,  as  from  a  kindled  Naptha  fount, 
Showers  of  consuming  fire  o'er  all  below,'  — 
Looking,  as  through  the  illumined  night  they  go, 
Like  those  wild  birds  that  by  the  Magians  oft, 
At  festivals  of  fire,  were  sent  aloft 
Into  the  air,  with  blazing  fagots  tied 
To  their  huge  wings,  scattering  combustion  wide. 
All  night  the  groans  of  wretches  who  expire 
In  agony,  beneath  these  darts  of  fire, 
Ring  through  the  city ;  while,  descending  o'er 
Its  shrines  and  domes  and  streets  of  sycamore,  — 
Its  lone  bazaars,  with  their  bright  cloths  of  gold, 
Since  the  last  peaceful  pageant  left  unroll'd,  — 


IO4  LALLA  ROOXff. 

Its  beauteous  marble  baths,  whose  idle  jets 
Now  gush  with  blood,  — and  its  tall  minarets, 
That  late  have  stood  up  in  the  evening  glare 
Of  the  red  sun,  unhallow'd  by  a  prayer ;  — 
O'er  each,  in  turn,  the  dreadful  flame-bolts  fall. 
And  death  and  conflagration  throughout  all 
The  desolate  city  hold  high  festival ! 

Mokanna  sees  the  world  is  his  no  more  :  — 
One  sting  at  parting,  and  his  grasp  is  o'er. 
"What!    drooping  now?"   thus,  with  unblushing 

cheek, 

He  hails  the  few  who  yet  can  hear  him  speak, 
Of  all  those  famish'd  slaves  around  him  lying, 
And  by  the  light  of  blazing  temples  dying ; 
"What!   drooping  now?   now,  when  at  length  we 

press 

Home  o'er  the  very  threshold  of  success  ! 
When  Aila  from  our  ranks  hath  thinn'd  away 
Those  grosser  branches  that  kept  out  his  ray 
Of  favor  from  us,  and  we  stand  at  length 
Heirs  of  his  light  and  children  of  his  strength, 
The  chosen  few,  who  shall  survive  the  fall 
Of  Kings  and  Thrones,  triumphant  over  all ! 
Have  you  then  lost,  weak  murmurers  as  you  are, 
All  faith  in  him  who  was  your  Light,  your  Star? 
Have  you  forgot  the  eye  of  glory,  hid 
Beneath  this  Veil,  the  flashing  of  whose  lid 
Could,  like  a  sun-stroke  of  the  desert,  wither 
Millions  of  such  as  yonder  Chief  brings  hither? 


VEILED   PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.    10$ 

Long  have  its  lightnings  slept,  too  long,  but  now 
All  earth  shall  feel  the  unveiling  of  this  brow ! 
To-night,  —  yes,  sainted  men!  this  very  night, 
I  bid  you  all  to  a  fair  festal  rite, 
Where,  having  deep  refresh'd  each  weary  limb 
With  viands,  such  as  feast  Heaven's  cherubim, 
And  kindled  up  your  souls,  now  sunk  and  dim, 
With  that  pure  wine  the  Dark-eyed  Maids  above      ( 
Keep,  seal'd  with  precious   musk,  for  those  they 

love, 

I  will  myself  uncurtain  in  your  sight 
The  wonders  of  this  brow's  ineffable  light ; 
Then  lead  you  forth,  and  with  a  wink  disperse 
Yon  myriads,  howling  through  the  universe ! 


Eager  they  listen,  while  each  accent  darts 
New  life  into  their  chill'd  and  hope-sick  hearts,  — 
Such  treacherous  life  as  the  cool  draught  supplies 
To  him  upon  the  stake,  who  drinks  and  dies ! 
Wildly  they  point  their  lances  to  the  light 
Of  the  fast-sinking  sun,  and  shout,  "To-night!"  — 
"  To-night ! "  their  Chief  re-echoes  in  a  voice 
Of  fiend-like  mockery  that  bids  Hell  rejoice. 
Deluded  victims  !  —  never  hath  this  earth 
Seen  mourning  half  so  mournful  as  their  mirth. ' 
Here,  to  the  few  whose  iron  frames  had  stood 
This  racking  waste  of  famine  and  of  blood, 
Faint,  dying  wretches  clung,  from  whom  the  shout 
Of  triumph  like  a  maniac's  laugh  broke  out ;  — 


106  LALLA   ROOKH. 

There,  others,  lighted  by  the  smouldering  fire, 
Danced  like  wan  ghosts  about  a  funeral  pyre, 
»  Among  the  dead  and  dying,  strew'd  around  ;  — 
While  some  pale  wretch  look'd  on,  and  from  his 

wound 

Plucking  the  fiery  dart  by  which  he  bled 
In  ghastly  transport  waved  it  o'er  his  head  ! 


'Twas  more  than  midnight  now ;  a  fearful  pause 
Had  follow'd  the  long  shouts,  the  wild  applause, 
That  lately  from  those  Royal  Gardens  burst, 
Where  the  Veil'd  demon  held  his  feast  accurst. 
When  Zelica —  alas,  poor  ruin'd  heart, 
In  every  horror  doonrd  to  bear  its  part  !  — 
Was  bidden  to  the  banquet  by  a  slave, 
Who,  while  his  quivering  lip  the  summons  gave, 
Grew  black,  as  though  the  shadows  of  the  grave 
Compassed  him  round,  and  ere  he  could  repeat 
His  message  through,  fell  lifeless  at  her  feet ! 
Shuddering,  she  went :  —  a  soul-felt  pang  of  fear. 
A  presage  that  her  own  dark  doom  was  near, 
Roused  every  feeling,  and  brought  Reason  back 
Once  more,  to  writhe  her  last  upon  the  rack. 
All  round  seem'd  tranquil  —  even  the  foe  had;ceased, 
As  if  aware  of  that  demoniac  feast, 
His  fiery  bolts  ;  and  though  the  heavens  look'd  red, 
'Twas  but   some  distant  conflagration's  spread. 
But  hark  !  she  stops,  she  listens  —  dreadful  tone ! 
'Tis  her  Tormentor's  laugh !  —  and  now  a  groan. 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.    IO/ 

A  long  death-groan  comes  with  it  :  can  this  be 

The  place  of  mirth,  the  bower  of  revelry? 

She  enters  —  Holy  Alia,  what  a  sight 

Was  there  before  her  !     By  the  glimmering  light 

Of  the  pale  dawn,  mix'd  with  the  flare  of  brands 

That  round  lay  burning,  dropped  from  lifeless  hands, 

She  saw  the  board,  in  splendid  mockery  spread, 

Rich  censers  breathing,  garlands  overhead, 

The  urns,   the   cups,   from  which    they  late   had 

quafTd, 
All  gold  and   gems,   but  —  what   had    been  the 


Oh,  who  need  ask,  that  saw  those  livid  guests, 
With  their  swollen  heads  sunk  blackening  on  their 

breasts, 

Or  looking  pale  to  Heaven  with  glassy  glare, 
As  if  they  sought,  but  saw  no  mercy  there  ;  —  > 
As  if  they  felt,  though  poison  rack'd  them  through, 
Remorse  the  deadlier  torment  of  the  two  ! 
While  some,  the  bravest,  hardiest  of  the  train 
Of  their  false  Chief,  who  on  the  battle-plain 
Would  have  met  death  with  transport  by  his  side, 
Here   mute  and    helpless   gasp'd  ;  —  but,  as  they 

died, 
Look'd  horrible  vengeance  with    their  eyes'  last 

strain, 
And  clench'd  the  slackening  hand  at  him  in  vain- 

Dreadful  it  was  to  see  the  ghastly  stare, 
The  stony  look  of  horror  and  despair, 


IO8  LALLA  ROOKH. 

Which  some  of  these  expiring  victims  cast 
Upon  their  souls'  tormentor  to  the  last,  — 
Upon  that  mocking  Fiend,  whose  Veil,  now  raised, 
Showed  them,  as  in  death's  agony  they  gazed  — 
Not    the    long-promised    light,    the   brow   whose 

beaming 

Was  to  come  forth,  all  conquering,  all  redeeming, 
But  features  horribler  than  Hell  e'er  traced 
On  its  own  brood :  no  Demon  of  the  Waste, 
No  churchyard  Ghole  caught  lingering  in  the  light 
Of  the  blest  sun,  e'er  blasted  human  sight 
With  lineaments  so  foul,  so  fierce  as  those 
The  Impostor  now  in  grinning  mockery  shows :  — 
"There,  ye  wise  Saints,  behold  your  Light,  your 

Star! 

Ye  ivonld'bz  dupes  and  victims,  and  ye  are! 
Is  it  enough?  or  must  I,  while  a  thrill 
Lives  in  your  sapient  bosoms,  cheat  you  still? 
Swear  that  the  burning  death  ye  feel  within 
Is  but  the  trance  with  which  Heaven's  joys  begin ; 
That  this  foul  visage,  foul  as  e'er  disgraced 
Even  monstrous  man,  is  —  after  God's  own  taste ; 
And  that  —  but  see  !  ere  I  have  half-way  said 
My  greetings  through,  the  uncourteous  souls  are  fled. 
Farewell,  sweet  spirits ;  not  in  vain  ye  die, 
If  Eblis  loves  you  half  so  well  as  I.  — 
Ha,  my  young  bride  !  'tis  well,  take  thou  thy  seat ; 
Nay,  come,  no  shuddering,  didst  thou  never  meet 
The    dead    before  ?  —  they  graced    our  wedding, 

sweet ; 


VEILED  rROFHET  OF  KHORASSAN,    IOQ 

And  these,  my  guests  to-night,  have  brimm'd  so 

true 

Their  parting  cups,  that  them  shalt  pledge  one  too. 
But  —  how  is  this  ?  all  empty  ?  all  drunk  up  ? 
Hot  lips  have  been  before  thee  in  the  cup, 
Young  bride,  —  yet  stay,  one  precious  drop  remains, 
Enough  to  warm  a  gentle  Priestess'  veins : 
Here,  drink,  and  should  thy  lover's  conquering  arms 
Speed  hither,  ere  thy  lip  lose  all  its  charms, 
Give  him  but  half  this  venom  in  thy  kiss, 
And  I'll  forgive  my  haughty  rival's  bliss  ! 

"  For  me  —  I  too  must  die,  but  not  like  these 
Vile  rankling  things,  to  fester  in  the  breeze, 
To  have  this  brow  in  ruffian  triumph  shown, 
With  all  Death's  grimness  added  to  its  own, 
And  rot  to  dust  beneath  the  taunting  eyes 
Of  slaves,  exclaiming,  '  There  his  Godship  lies  !' 
No,  cursed  race  !  since  first  my  soul  drew  breath, 
They've  been  my  dupes,  and  shall  be  e'en  in  death. 
Thou  seest  yon  cistern  in  the  shade,  —  'tis  fill'd 
With  burning  drugs,  for  this  last  hour  distill'd: 
There  will  I  plunge  me,  in  that  liquid  flame  — 
Fit  bath  to  lave  a  dying  Prophet's  frame  !  — 
There  perish,  all,  ere  pulse  of  thine  shall  fail, 
Nor  leave  one  limb  to  tell  mankind  the  tale. 
So  shall  my  votaries,  wheresoe'er  they  rave, 
Proclaim  that  Heaven  took  back  the  Saint  it  gave ; 
That  I've  but  vanish'd  from  this  earth  awhile, 
To  come  again,  with  bright,  unshrouded  smile  ! 


IIO  LALLA   ROOKH. 

So  shall  they  build  me  altars  in  their  zeal, 

Where  knaves  shall  minister,  and  fools  shall  kneel; 

Where  Faith  may  mutter  o'er  her  mystic  spell, 

Written  in  blood,  and  Bigotry  may  swell 

The  sail  he  spreads  for  Heaven  with  blasts  from 

Hell! 

So  shall  my  banner,  through  long  ages,  be 
The  rallying  sign  of  fraud  and  anarchy ;  — 
Kings  yet  unborn  shall  rue  Mokanna's  name, 
And  though  I  die,  my  spirit,  still  the  same, 
Shall  walk  abroad  in  all  the  stormy  strife 
And  guilt  and  blood  that  were  its  bliss  in  life. 
But  hark  !  their  battering  engine  shakes  the  wall  — • 
Why,  let  it  shake !  thus  I  can  brave  them  all : 
No  trace  of  me  shall  greet  them  when  they  come : 
And  I  can  trust  thy  faith,  for  —  thou'lt  be  dumb. 
Now  mark  how  readily  a  wretch  like  me 
In  one  bold  plunge  commences  Deity ! " 


He  sprung  and  sunk,  as  the  last  words  were  said : 
Quick  closed  the  burning  waters  o'er  his  head : 
And  Zelica  was  left,  within  the  ring 
Of  those  wide  walls  the  only  living  thing ; 
The  only  wretched  one,  still  cursed  with  breath, 
In  all  that  frightful  wilderness  of  death ! 
More  like  some  bloodless  ghost,  such  as  they  tell 
In  the  lone  Cities  of  the  Silent  dwell, 
And  there,  unseen  of  all  but  Alia,  sit 
Each  by  its  own  pale  carcass,  watching  it. 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.    Ill 

But  morn  is  up,  and  a  fresh  warfare  stirs 
Throughout  the  camp  of  the  beleaguerers. 
Their  globes  of  fire  —  the  dread  artillery  lent 
By  Greece  to  conquering  Mahadi  —  are  spent; 
,And  now  the  scorpion's  shaft,  the  quarry  sent 
From  high  ballistas,  and  the  shielded  throng 
Of  soldiers  swinging  the  huge  ram  along, 
All  speak  the  impatient  Islamite's  intent 
To  try,  at  length,  if  tower  and  battlement 
And  bastion'd  wall  be  not  less  hard  to  win, 
Less  tough  to  break  down  than  the  hearts  within. 
First  in  impatience  and  in  toil  is  he, 
The  burning  Azim  —  oh,  could  he  but  see 
The  Impostor  once  alive  with  his  grasp, 
Not  the  gaunt  lion's  hug,  nor  boa's  clasp, 
Could  match  that  gripe  of  vengeance,  or  keep  pace 
With  the  fell  heartiness  of  Hate's  embrace  ! 

Loud  rings  the  ponderous  ram  against  the  walls ; 
Now  shake  the  ramparts,  now  a  buttress  falls, 
But  still  no  berach  —  "  Once   more,  one   mighty 

swing 

Of  all  your  beams,  together  thundering !  " 
There  —  the  wall  shakes  —  the  shouting  troops  exult, 
"  Quick,  quick  discharge  your  weightiest  catapult 
Right  on  that  spot,  and  Neksheb  is  our  own  ! " 
'Tis  done  —  the  battlements  come  crashing  down, 
And  the  huge  wall,  by  that  stroke  riven  in  two, 
Yawning,  like  some  old  crater  rent  anew, 
Shows  the  dim  desolate  city  smoking  through. 


112  LALLA   ROOKFL 

But   strange !     no   signs   of   life  —  nought    living 

seen 

Above,  below  —  what  can  this  stillness  mean?         » 
A  minute's  pause  suspends  all  hearts  and  eyes,  — 
"In  through  the  breach !"  impetuous  Azim  cries; 
But  the  cool  Caliph,  fearful  of  some  wile 
In  this  blank  stillness,  checks  the  troops  awhile. — 
Just  then,  a  figure,  with  slow  step  advanced 
Forth  from  the  ruin'd  walls,  and  as  there  glanced 
A  sunbeam  over  it,  all  eyes  could  see 
The  well-known  Silver  Veil !  —  "  Tis  He,  'tis  He, 
Mokanna,  and  alone  !  "  they  shout  around ; 
Young  Azim  from  his  steed  springs  to  the  ground  — 
"  Mine,  Holy  Caliph  !  mine,"  he  cries,  "  the  task 
To  crush  yon  daring  wretch  — 'tis  all  I  ask!  " 
Eager  he  darts  to  meet  the  demon  foe, 
Who  still  across  wide  heaps  of  ruin  slow 
And  falteringly  comes,  till  they  are  near ; 
Then,  with  a  bound,  rushes  on  Azim's  spear, 
And  casting  off  the  Veil  in  falling,  shows  — 
Oh ! —  'tis  his  Zelica's  life-blood  that  flows ! 


"  I  meant  not,  Azim,"  soothingly  she  said, 
As  on  his  trembling  arm  she  lean'd  her  head, 
And  looking  in  his  face,  saw  anguish  there 
Beyond  all  wounds  the  quivering  flesh  can  bear, 
"  I  meant  not  thou  shouldst  have  the  pain  of  this : 
Though  death,  with  thee  thus  tasted,  is  a  bliss 
Thou  wouldst  not  rob  me  of,  didst  thou  but  know 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KKORASSAN.    113 

How  oft  I've  pray'd  to  God  I  might  die  so  ! 
But  the  Fiend's  venom  was  too  scant  and  slow : 
To  linger  on  were  maddening,  and  I  thought 
If  once  that  Veil — nay,  look  not  on  it!  —  caught 
The  eyes  of  your  fierce  soldiery,  I  should  be 
Struck  by  a  thousand  death-darts  instantly. 
But  this  is  sweeter  —  oh,  believe  me,  yes  — 
I  would  not  change  this  sad  but  dear  caress, 
This  death  within  thine  arms  I  would  not  give 
For  the  most  smiling  life  the  happiest  live ! 
All  that  stood  dark  and  drear  before  the  eye 
Of  my  stray'd  soul,  is  passing  swiftly  by ; 
A  light  comes  o:er  me  from  those  looks  of  love, 
Like  the  first  dawn  of  mercy  from  above ; 
And  if  thy  lips  but  tell  me  I'm  forgiven, 
Angels  will  echo  the  blest  words  in  Heaven  ! 
But  live,  mine  Azim  ;  — oh,  to  call  thee  mine 
Thus  once  again  !  mine  Azim,  — dream  divine  ! 
Live,  if  thou  ever  lovedst  me,  if  to  meet 
Thy  Zelica  hereafter  would  be  sweet, 
Oh,  live  to  pray  for  her  —  to  bend  the  knee 
Morning  and  night  before  that  Deity, 
To  whom  pure  lips  and  hearts  without  a  stain, 
As  thine  are,  Azim,  never  breathed  in  vain; 
And  pray  that  he  may  pardon  her,  may  take 
Compassion  on  her  soul  for  thy  dear  sake, 
And  nought  remembering  but  her  love  to  thee, 
Make  her  all  thine,  all  His,  eternally  ! 
Go  to  those  happy  fields  where  first  we  twined 
Our  youthful  hearts  together,  —  every  wind 


114  LALLA   ROOKH. 

That  meets  thee  there,  fresh  from  the  well-known 

flowers, 

Will  bring  the  sweetness  of  those  innocent  hours 
Back  to  thy  soul,  —  and  mayst  thou  feel  again 
For  thy  poor  Zelica  as  thou  didst  then. 
So  shall  thine  orisons,  like  dew  that  flies 
To  Heaven  upon  the  morning's  sunshine,  rise 
With  all  love's  earliest  ardor  to  the  skies ! 
And  should  they  —  but,  alas,  my  senses  fail ! 
Oh,   for  one  minute !  —  should  thy  prayers    pre- 
vail — 

If  pardon'd  souls  may,  from  that  World  of  Bliss, 
Reveal  their  joy  to  those  they  love  in  this  — 
I'll  come  to  thee  —  in  some   sweet  dream  —  and 

tell  — 

Oh,   Heaven !  —  I  die  —  dear  love  !  farewell,  fare- 
well ! " 


Time  fleeted,  —  years  on  years  had  pass'd  away, 
And  few  of  those  who  on  that  mournful  day 
Had  stood,  with  pity  in  their  eyes,  to  see 
The  maiden's  death  and  the  youth's  agony, 
Were  living  still,  —  when,  by  a  rustic  grave, 
Beside  the  swift  Amoo's  transparent  wave, 
An  aged  man,  who  had  grown  aged  there 
By  that  lone  grave,  morning  and  night  in  prayer. 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.    115 

For  the  last  time  knelt  down ;  and,  tho'  the  shade 

Of  death  hung  darkening  over  him,  there  play'd 

A  gleam  of  rapture  on  his  eye  and  cheek, 

That  brighten'd  even  Death  —  like  the  last  streak 

Of  intense  glory  on  the  horizon's  brim, 

When  night  o'er  all  the  rest  hangs  chill  and  dim.     f 

His  soul  had  seen  a  Vision,  while  he  slept :  — 

She  for  whose  spirit  he  had  pray'd  and  wept 

So  many  years,  had  come  to  him,  all  drest 

In  angel  smiles,  and  told  him  she  was  blest ! 

For  this  the  old  man  breathed  his  thanks,  —  and 

died. 

And  there,  upon  the  banks  of  that  loved  tide, 
He  and  his  Zelica  sleep  side  by  side. 


THE  story  of  the  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan 
being  ended,  they  were  now  doomed  to  hear  Fad- 
ladeen's  criticisms  upon  it.  A  series  of  disappoint- 
ments and  accidents  had  occurred  to  this  learned 
Chamberlain  during  the  journey.  In  the  first  place, 
those  couriers  stationed,  as  in  the  reign  of  Shah 
Jehan,  between  Delhi  and  the  Western  coast  of 
India,  to  secure  a  constant  supply  of  mangoes  for 
the  Royal  Table,  had,  by  some  cruel  irregularity, 
failed  in  their  duty ;  and  to  eat  any  mangoes  but 
those  of  Mazagong  was,  of  course,  impossible.  la 


Il6  LALLA   ROOKff. 

the  next  place,  the  elephant,  laden  with  his  fine  an- 
tique porcelain,  had,  in  an  unusual  fit  of  liveliness, 
shattered  the  whole  set  to  pieces  :  —  an  irreparable 
loss,  as  many  of  the  vessels  were  so  exquisitely  old, 
as  to  have  been  used  under  the  Emperors  Yan  and 
Chun,  who  reigned  many  ages  before  the  dynasty  of 
Tang.  His  Koran,  too,  supposed  to  be  the  identi- 
cal copy  between  the  leaves  of  which  Mahomet's 
favorite  pigeon  used  to  nestle,  had  been  mislaid  by 
his  Koran-bearer  three  whole  days  ;  not  without 
much  spiritual  alarm  to  Fadladeen,  who,  though 
professing  to  hold,  with  other  loyal  and  orthodox 
Mussulmans,  that  salvation  could  only  be  found  in 
the  Koran,  was  strongly  suspected  of  believing,  in 
his  heart,  that  it  could  only  be  found  in  his  own 
particular  copy  of  it.  When  to  all  these  grievances 
is  added  the  obstinacy  of  the  cooks,  in  putting  the 
pepper  of  Canara  into  his  dishes  instead  of  the  cin- 
namon of  Serendib,  we  may  easily  suppose  that  he 
came  to  the  task  of  criticism  with,  at  least,  a  suffi- 
cient degree  of  irritability  for  the  purpose. 

"  In  order,"  said  he,  importantly  swinging  about 
his  chaplet  of  pearls,  "to  convey  with  clearness  my 
opinion  of  the  story  this  young  man  has  related, 
it  is  necessary  to  take  a  review  of  all  the  stories 
that  have  ever" — "My  good  Fadladeen!"  ex- 
claimed the  Princess,  interrupting  him,  "we  really 
do  not  deserve  that  you  should  give  yourself  so 
much  trouble.  Your  opinion  of  the  poem  we  have 
just  heard  will,  I  have  no  doubt,  be  abundantly  edi- 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.    1 1/ 

fying,  without  any  further  waste  of  your  valuable 
erudition."  —  "If  that  be  all,"  replied  the  critic, 
evidently  mortified  at  not  being  allowed  to  show 
how  much  he  knew  about  everything  but  the  subject 
immediately  before  him,  "  if  that  be  all  that  is  re- 
quired, the  matter  is  easily  despatched."  He  then 
proceeded  to  analyze  the  poem,  in  that  strain  (so 
well  known  to  the  unfortunate  bards  of  Delhi) 
whose  censures  were  an  infliction  from  which  few 
recovered,  and  whose  very  praises  were  like  the 
honey  extracted  from  the  bitter  flowers  of  the  aloe. 
The  chief  personages  of  the  story  were,  if  he  rightly 
understood  them,  an  ill-favored  gentleman,  with  a 
veil  over  his  face ;  a  young  lady,  whose  reason 
went  and  came,  according  as  it  suited  the  poet's 
convenience  to  be  sensible  or  otherwise ;  and  a 
youth  in  one  of  those  hideous  Bucharian  bonnets, 
who  took  the  aforesaid  gentleman  in  a  veil  for  a 
Divinity.  "  From  such  materials,"  said  he,  "  what 
can  be  expected?  After  rivalling  each  other  in 
long  speeches  and  absurdities,  through  some  thou- 
sands of  lines  as  indigestible  as  the  filberts  of  Ber- 
daa,  our  friend  in  the  veil  jumps  into  a  tub  of 
aquafortis;  the  young  lady  dies  in  a  set  speech, 
whose  only  recommendation  is  that  it  is  her  last ; 
and  the  lover  lives  on  to  a  good  old  age  for  the 
laudable  purpose  of  seeing  her  ghost,  which  he  at 
last  happily  accomplishes,  and  expires.  This,  you 
will  allow,  is  a  fair  summary  of  the  story ;  and  if 
Nasser,  the  Arabian  merchant,  told  no  better,  our 


Il8  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Holy  Prophet  (to  whom  be  all  honor  and  glory  f) 
had  no  need  to  be  jealous  of  his  abilities  for  story- 
telling." 

With  respect  to  the  style,  it  was  worthy  of  the 
matter  ;  —  it  had  not  even  those  politic  contrivances 
of  structure  which  make  up  for  the  commonness  of 
Ihe  thoughts  by  the  peculiarity  of  the  manner,  nor 
that  stately  poetical  phraseology  by  which  senti- 
ments mean  in  themselves,  like  the  blacksmith's 
apron  converted  into  a  banner,  are  so  easily  gilt 
and  embroidered  into  consequence.  Then,  as  to 
the  versification,  it  was,  to  say  no  worse  of  it,  exe- 
crable :  it  had  neither  the  copious  flow  of  Ferdosi, 
the  sweetness  of  Hafez,  nor  the  sententious  march 
of  Sadi,  but  appeared  to  him,  in  the  uneasy  heavi- 
ness of  its  movements,  to  have  been  modelled  upon 
the  gait  of  a  very  tired  dromedary.  The  licenses, 
too,  in  which  it  indulged  were  unpardonable,  —  for 
instance,  this  line,  and  the  poem  abounded  with 
such : — 

"  Like  the  faint  exquisite  music  of  a  dream." 

"What  critic  that  can  count,"  said  Fadladeen, 
"  and  has  his  full  complement  of  fingers  to  count 
•withal,  would  tolerate  for  an  instant  such  syllabic 
superfluities?" — He  here  looked  round,  and  dis- 
covered that  most  of  his  audience  were  asleep, 
while  the  glimmering  lamps  seemed  inclined  to  fol- 
low their  example.  It  became  necessary,  therefore, 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.    1 19 

however  painful  to  himself,  to  put  an  end  to  his 
valuable  animadversions  for  the  present,  and  he 
accordingly  concluded,  with  an  air  of  dignified  can- 
dor, thus  :  "  Notwithstanding  the  observations 
which  I  have  thought  it  my  duty  to  make,  it  is  by 
no  means  my  wish  to  discourage  the  young  man :  — 
so  far  from  it,  indeed,  that  if  he  will  but  totally 
alter  his  style  of  writing  and  thinking,  I  have  very 
little  doubt  that  I  shall  be  vastly  pleased  with  him." 
Some  days  elapsed,  after  this  harangue  of  the 
Great  Chamberlain,  before  Lalla  Rookh  could  ven- 
ture to  ask  for  another  story.  The  youth  was  still 
a  welcome  guest  in  the  pavilion  —  to  one  heart, 
perhaps,  too  dangerously  welcome  :  —  but  all  men- 
tion of  poetry  was,  as  if  by  common  consent, 
avoided.  Though  none  of  the  party  had  much  res- 
pect for  Fadladeen,  yet  his  censures,  thus  magis- 
terially delivered,  evidently  made  an  impression  on 
them  all.  The  Poet  himself,  to  whom  criticism 
was  quite  a  new  operation  (being  wholly  unknown 
in  that  Paradise  of  the  Indies,  Cashmere),  felt  the 
shock  as  it  is  generally  felt  at  first,  till  use  has  made 
it  more  tolerable  to  the  patient ;  the  Ladies  began 
to  suspect  that  they  ought  not  to  be  pleased,  and 
seemed  to  conclude  that  there  must  have  been 
much  good  sense  in  what  Fadladeen  said,  from  its 
having  sent  them  ah  so  soundly  to  sleep ;  while  the 
self-complacent  Chamberlain  was  left  to  triumph 
in  the  idea  of  having,  for  the  hundred  and  fiftieth 
time  in  his  life,  extinguished  a  Poet.  Lalla  Rookh 


120  LALLA   ROOKH. 

alone  —  and  Love  knew  why  —  persisted  in  being 
delighted  with  all  she  had  heard,  and  in  resolving 
to  hear  more  as  speedily  as  possible.  Her  manner, 
however,  of  first  returning  to  the  subject  was  un- 
lucky. It  was  while  they  rested  during  the  heat  of 
noon  near  a  fountain,  on  which  some  hand  had 
rudely  traced  those  well-known  words  from  the 
Garden  of  Sadi, —  "  Many,  like  me,  have  viewed 
this  fountain,  but  they  are  gone,  and  their  eyes  are 
closed  forever  ! ''  —  that  she  took  occasion,  from  the 
melancholy  beauty  of  this  passage,  to  dwell  upon 
the  charms  of  poetry  in  general.  "  It  is  true,"  she 
said,  "few  poets  can  imitate  that  sublime  bird, 
which  flies  always  in  the  air,  and  never  touches  the 
earth  :  —  it  is  only  once  in  many  ages  a  Genius  ap- 
pears, whose  words,  like  those  on  the  Written 
Mountain,  last  forever ;  but  still  there  are  some,  as 
delightful,  perhaps,  though  not  so  wonderful,  who, 
if  not  stars  over  our  head,  are  at  least  flowers  along 
our  path,  and  whose  sweetness  of  the  moment  we 
ought  gratefully  to  inhale,  without  calling  upon 
them  for  a  brightness  and  a  durability  beyond  their 
nature.  In  short,"  continued  she,  blushing  as  if 
conscious  of  being  caught  in  an  oration,  "  it  is 
quite  cruel  that  a  poet  cannot  wander  through  his 
regions  of  enchantment,  without  having  a  critic 
forever,  like  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  upon  his 
back!"  —  Fadladeen,  it  was  plain,  took  this  last 
luckless  allusion  to  himself,  and  would  treasure  it 
up  in  his  mind  as  a  whetstone  for  his  next  criticism. 


VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN.    121 

A  sudden  silence  ensued ;  and  the  Princess,  glan- 
cing a  look  at  Feramorz,  saw  plainly  she  must  wait 
for  a  more  courageous  moment. 

But  the  glories  of  Nature  and  her  wild  fragrant 
airs,  playing  freshly  over  the  current  of  youthful 
spirits,  will  soon  heal  even  deeper  wounds  than  the 
dull  Fadladeens  of  this  world  can  inflict.  In  an 
evening  or  two  after,  they  came  to  the  small  Valley 
of  Gardens,  which  had  been  planted,  by  order  of  the 
Emperor,  for  his  favorite  sister,  Rochinara,  dur- 
ing their  progress  to  Cashmere  some  years  before ; 
and  never  was  there  a  more  sparkling  assemblage 
of  sweets,  since  the  Gulzar-e-Irem,  or  Rose-bower 
of  Irem.  Every  precious  flower  was  there  to  be 
found  that  poetry,  or  love,  or  religion,  has  ever 
consecrated,  —  from  the  dark  hyacinth,  to  which 
Hafez  compares  his  mistress's  hair,  to  the  Cdma- 
latd,  by  whose  rosy  blossoms  the  heaven  of  Indra 
is  scented.  As  they  sat  in  the  cool  fragrance  of 
this  delicious  spot,  and  Lalla  Rookh  remarked 
that  she  could  fancy  it  the  abode  of  that  Flower- 
loving  Nymph  whom  they  worship  in  the  temples  of 
Kathay,  or  of  one  of  those  Peris,  those  beautiful 
creatures  of  the  air,  who  live  upon  perfumes,  and 
to  whom  a  place  like  this  might  make  some  amends 
for  the  Paradise  they  have  lost, —  the  young  Poet, 
in  whose  eyes  she  appeared,  while  she  spoke,  to  be 
one  of  the  bright  spiritual  creatures  she  was  de- 
scribing, said  hesitatingly  that  he  remembered  a 
Story  of  a  Peri,  which,  if  the  Princess  had  no  ob- 


122  LALLA   ROOKH. 

jection,  he  would  venture  to  relate.  "  It  is,"  said 
he,  with  an  appealing  look  to  Fadladeen,  "  in  a 
lighter  and  humbler  strain  than  the  other ;  "  then, 
striking  a  few  careless  but  melancholy  chords  on 
his  guitar,  he  thus  began :  — 


PARADISE   AND   THE   PERI. 


ONE  morn  a  Peri  at  the  gate 
Of  Eden  stood,  disconsolate ; 
And  as  she  listen'd  to  the  Springs 

Of  Life  within,  like  music  flowing, 
And  caught  the  light  upon  her  wings 

Through  the  half-open  portal  glowing, 
She  wept  to  think  her  recreant  race 
Should  e'er  have  lost  that  glorious  place  ! 

"  How  happy,"  exclaim'd  this  child  of  air, 
"Are  the  holy  Spirits  who  wander  there, 

'Mid  flowers  that  never  shall  fade  or  fall ; 
Though  mine  are  the  gardens  of  earth  and  sea. 
And  the  stars  themselves  have  flowers  for  me, 

One  blossom  of  Heaven  outblooms  them  all  I 

"  Though  sunny  the  Lake  of  cool  Cashmere, 
With  its  plane-tree  Isle  reflected  clear,  , 

And  sweetly  the  founts  of  that  Valley  fall ; 
Though  bright  are  the  waters  of  Sing-su-hay, 
And  the  golden  floods  that  thitherward  stray, 
Yet  —  oh,  'tis  only  the  Blest  can  say 

How  the  waters  of  Heaven  outshine  them  all  t 
123 


124  LALLA   ROOfCH. 

11  Go,  wing  thy  flight  from  star  to  star, 
From  world  to  luminous  world,  as  far 

As  the  universe  spreads  its  flaming  wall : 
Take  all  the  pleasures  of  all  the  spheres, 
And  multiply  each  through  endless  years,  — 

One  minute  of  Heaven  is  worth  them  all ! n 

The  glorious  Angel  who  was  keeping 
The  Gates  of  Light  beheld  her  weeping ; 
And  as  he  nearer  drew  and  listen'd 
To  her  sad  song,  a  tear-drop  glisten'd 
Within  his  eyelids,  like  the  spray 

From  Eden's  fountain,  when  it  lies 
On  the  blue  flower,  which,  Bramins  say, 

Blooms  nowhere  but  in  Paradise. 

"  Nymph  of  a  fair  but  erring  line," 
Gently  he  said,  "  one  hope  is  thine: 
1Tis  written  in  the  Book  of  Fate, 

STfjf  $eri  get  mag  be  furgtben 
®Hfia  brings  to  HUB  Eternal  (Sate 

ZTIjc  (Sift  ifinl  is  most  tear  to  ffea&en ! 
Go,  seek  it,  and  redeem  thy  sin  — 
'Tis  sweet  to  let  the  Pardon'd  in." 

Rapidly  as  comets  run 

To  the  embraces  of  the  Sun, 

Fleeter  than  the  starry  brands 

Flung  at  night  from  angel  hands, 

At  those  dark  and  daring  sprites 

Who  would  climb  the  empyreal  heights. 


PARADISE  AND    THE   PERL         12$ 

Down  the  blue  vault  the  Peri  flies, 
And,  lighted  earthward  by  a  glance 

That  just  then  broke  from  morning's  eyes, 
Hung  hovering  o'er  our  world's  expanse. 

But  whither  shall  the  Spirit  go 

To  find  this  gift  for  Heaven?  —  "I  know 

The  wealth,"  she  cries,  "  of  every  urn, 

In  which  unnumber'd  rubies  burn, 

Beneath  the  pillars  of  Chilminar; 

I  know  where  the  Isles  of  Perfume  are, 

Many  a  fathom  down  in  the  sea, 

To  the  south  of  sun-bright  Araby ; 

I  know,  too,  where  the  Genii  hid 

The  jewelPd  cup  of  their  King  Jamshid, 

With  Life's  elixir  sparkling  high,  — 

But  gifts  like  these  are  not  for  the  sky. 

Where  was  there  ever  a  gem  that  shone 

Like  the  steps  of  Alla's  wonderful  Throne? 

And  the  Drops  of  Life—  oh,  what  would  they  be 

In  the  boundless  Deep  of  Eternity  ?  " 

While  thus  she  mused,  her  pinions  fann'd 
The  air  of  that  sweet  Indian  land 
Whose  air  is  balm,  whose  ocean  spreads 
O'er  coral  rocks  and  amber  beds ; 
Whose  mountains,  pregnant  by  the  beam 
Of  the  warm  sun,  with  diamonds  teem ; 
Whose  rivulets  are  like  rich  brides, 
Lovely,  with  gold  beneath  their  tides ; 


126  LALLA   ROOKff. 

Whose  sandal  groves  and  bowers  of  spice 
Might  be  a  Peri's  Paradise ! 
But  crimson  now  her  rivers  ran 

With  human  blood  :  the  smell  of  death 
Came  reeking  from  those  spicy  bowers, 
And  man,  the  sacrifice  of  man, 

Mingled  his  taint  with  every  breath 
Upwafted  from  the  innocent  flowers. 
Land  of  the  Sun,  what  foot  invades 
Thy  Pagods  and  thy  pillar'd  shades, 
Thy  cavern  shrines,  and  Idol  stones, 
Thy  Monarchs  and  their  thousand  Thrones? 
'Tis  he  of  Gazna,  —  fierce  in  wrath 

He  comes,  and  India's  diadems 
Lie  scatterd  in  his  ruinous  path. 

His  bloodhounds  he  adorns  with  gems, 
Torn  from  the  violated  necks 
Of  many  a  young  and  loved  Sultana ; 
Maidens,  within  their  pure  Zenana, 

Priests  in  the  very  fane,  he  slaughters, 
And  chokes  up  with  the  glittering  wrecks 
'    Of  golden  shrines  the  sacred  waters  ! 
Downward  the  Peri  turns  her  gaze, 
And  through  the  war-field's  bloody  haze 
Beholds  a  youthful  warrior  stand, 

Alone,  beside  his  native  river,  — 
The  red  blade  broken  in  his  hand, 

And  the  last  arrow  in  his  quiver. 
"  Live,"  said  the.  Conqueror,  "  live  to  share 
The  trophies  and  the  crowns  I  bear ! " 


PARADISE  AND    THE  PERT.          12J 

Silent  that  youthful  warrior  stood, 

Silent  he  pointed  to  the  flood 

All  crimson  with  his  country's  blood,  \ 

Then  sent  his  last  remaining  dart, 

For  answer,  to  the  Invader's  heart. 

False  flew  the  shaft,  though  pointed  well : 
The  Tyrant  lived,  the  Hero  fell !  — 
Yet  marked  the  Peri  where  he  lay, 

And  when  the  rush  of  war  was  past, 
Swiftly  descending  on  a  ray 

Of  morning  light,  she  caught  the  last, 
Last  glorious  drop  his  heart  had  shed, 
Before  its  free-born  spirit  fled ! 

"  Be  this,"  she  cried,  as  she  wing'd  her  flight, 
"  My  welcome  gift  at  the  Gates  of  Light. 
Though  foul  are  the  drops  that  oft  distil 

On  the  field  of  warfare,  blood  like  this, 

For  Liberty  shed,  so  holy  is, 
It  would  not  stain  the  purest  rill 

That  sparkles  among  the  Bowers  of  Bliss ! 
Oh,  if  there  be,  on  this  earthly  sphere, 
A  boon,  an  offering  Heaven  holds  dear, 
Tis  the  last  libation  Liberty  draws 
From  the  heart  that  bleeds  and  breaks  in  her 


cause : 


t 11 


"  Sweet,"  said  the  Angel,  as  she  gave 
The  gift  into  his  radiant  hand, 


€28  LALLA   ROOKH. 

"  Sweet  is  our  welcome  of  the  Brave 

Who  die  thus  for  their  native  Land. 
But  see,  alas !  the  crystal  bar 
Of  Eden  moves  not,  —  holier  far 
Than  even  this  drop  the  boon  must  be, 
That  opes  the  Gates  of  Heaven  for  thee." 

Her  first  fond  hope  of  Eden  blighted, 

Now  among  Afric's  lunar  Mountains, 
Far  to  the  South  the  Peri  lighted ; 

And  sleek'd  her  plumage  at  the  fountains 
Of  that  Egyptian  tide,  whose  birth 
Is  hidden  from  the  sons  of  earth 
Deep  in  those  solitary  woods, 
Where  oft  the  Genii  of  the  Floods 
Dance  round  the  cradle  of  their  Nile, 
And  hail  the  new-born  Giant's  smile. 
Thence  over  Egypt's  palmy  groves, 

Her  grots,  and  sepulchres  of  Kings. 
The  exiled  Spirit  sighing  roves  ; 
And  now  hangs  listening  to  the  doves 
In  warm  Rosetta's  vale  —  now  loves 

To  watch  the  moonlight  on  the  wings 
Of  the  white  pelicans  that  break 
The  azure  calm  of  Mreris1  Lake. 
Twas  a  fair  scene  —  a  land  more  bright 

Never  did  mortal  eye  behold  ! 
Who  could  have  thought,  that  saw,  this  night, 

Those  valleys  and  their  fruits  of  gold 
Basking  in  Heaven's  serenest  light ; 


PARADISE  AND    THE  PERL         I2<) 

Those  groups  of  lovely  date-trees  bending 

Languidly  their  leaf-crown'd  heads, 
Like  youthful  maids,  when  sleep  descending 

Warns  them  to  their  silken  bed  ; 
Those  virgin  lilies,  all  the  night 

Bathing  their  beauties  in  the  lake, 
That  they  may  rise  more  fresh  and  bright, 

When  their  beloved  Sun's  awake  ; 
Those  ruin'd  shrines  and  towers  that  seem 
The  relics  of  a  splendid  dream, 

Amid  whose  fairy  loneliness 
Nought  but  the  lapwing's  cry  is  heard, 
Nought  seen  but  —  when  the  shadows,  flitting 
Fast  from  the  moon,  unsheathe  its  gleam  — 
Some  purple-wingM  Sultana  sitting 

Upon  a  column,  motionless 
And  glittering  like  an  Idol  bird  !  — 
Who  could  have  thought,  that  there,  even  there, 
Amid  those  scenes  so  still  and  fair, 
The  Demon  of  the  Plague  hath  cast 
From  his  hot  wing  a  deadlier  blast, 
More  mortal  far  than  ever  came 
From  the  red  Desert's  sands  of  flame ! 
So  quick,  that  every  living  thing 
Of  human  shape,  touch'd  by  his  wing, 
Like  plants  where  the  Simoon  hath  past, 
At  once  falls  black  and  withering  ! 

The  sun  went  down  on  many  a  brow 
Which,  full  of  bloom  and  freshness  then, 


I3O  LALLA   ROOKJff. 

Is  rankling  in  the  pest-house  now, 

And  ne'er  will  feel  that  sun  again. 
And,  oh  !  to  see  the  unburied  heaps 
On  which  the  lonely  moonlight  sleeps— 
The  very  vultures  turn  away, 
And  sicken  at  so  foul  a  prey  ! 
Only  the  fierce  hyaena  stalks 
Throughout  the  city's  desolate  walks 
At  midnight,  and  his  carnage  plies :  — 

Woe  to  the  half-dead  wretch  who  meets 
The  glaring  of  those  large  blue  eyes 
Amid  the  darkness  of  the  streets  ! 


"  Poor  race  of  men  !  "  said  the  pitying  Spirit, 

"  Dearly  ye  pay  for  your  primal  Fall  — 
Some  flowerets  of  Eden  ye  still  inherit, 

But  the  trail  of  the  Serpent  is  over  them  all J " 
She  wept  —  the  air  grew  pure  and  clear 

Around  her,  as  the  bright  drops  ran : 
For  there's  a  magic  in  each  tear 

Such  kindly  Spirits  weep  for  man ! 
Just  then  beneath  some  orange-trees, 
Whose  fruit  and  blossoms  in  the  breeze 
Were  wantoning  together,  free, 
Like  age  at  play  with  infancy,  — 
Beneath  that  fresh  and  springing  bower, 

Close  by  the  Lake,  she  heard  the  moan 
Of  one  who,  at  this  silent  hour, 

Had  thither  stolen  to  die  alone : 


PARADISE  AND    THE  PERL 

One  who  in  life,  where'er  he  moved, 

Drew  after  him  the  hearts  of  many, 
Yet  now,  as  though  he  ne'er  were  loved, 

Dies  here  unseen,  unwept  by  any  ! 
None  to  watch  near  him  —  none  to  slake 

The  fire  that  in  his  bosom  lies, 
With  even  a  sprinkle  from  that  lake 

Which  shines  so  cool  before  his  eyes ! 
No  voice,  well-known  through  many  a  day, 

To  speak  the  last,  the  parting  word, 
Which,  when  all  other  sounds  decay, 

Is  still  like  distant  music  heard ; 
That  tender  farewell  on  the  shore 
Of  this  rude  world,  when  all  is  o'er, 
Which  cheers  the  spirit,  ere  its  bark 
Puts  off  into  the  unknown  Dark. 

Deserted  youth  !  one  thought  alone 

Shed  joy  around  his  soul  in  death : 
That  she,  whom  he  for  years  had  known, 
And  loved,  and  might  have  call'd  his  own, 

Was  safe  from  this  foul  midnight's  breath, 
Safe  in  her  father's  princely  halls, 
Where  the  cool  airs  from  fountain  falls, 
Freshly  perfumed  by  many  a  brand 
Of  the  sweet  wood  from  India's  land, 
Were  pure  as  she  whose  brow  they  fann'd. 

But  see  !  who  yonder  comes  by  stealth, 
This  melancholy  bower  to  seek, 


132  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Like  a  young  envoy,  sent  by  Healtr 

With  rosy  gifts  upon  her  cheek? 
'Tis  she  !  —  far  off,  through  moom.ght  dim, 

He  knew  his  own  betrothed  bride, 
She,  who  would  rather  die  with  him, 

Than  live  to  gain  the  world  beside!  — 
Her  arms  are  round  her  lover  now, 

His  livid  cheek  to  hers  she  presses, 
And  dips,  to  bind  his  burning  brow, 

In  the  cool  lake  her  loosen'd  tresses. 
Ah  !  once,  how  little  did  he  think 
An  hour  would  come,  when  he  should  shrink 
With  horror  from  that  dear  embrace, 

Those  gentle  arms,  that  were  to  him 
Holy  as  is  the  cradling  place 

Of  Eden's  infant  cherubim! 
And  now  he  yields  —  now  turns  away, 
Shuddering  as  if  the  venam  lay 
All  in  those  proffer'd  lips  alone, 
Those  lips  that,  then  so  fearless  grown, 
Never  until  that  instant  came 
Near  his  unask'd  or  without  shame. 
"  Oh,  let  me  only  breathe  the  air, 

That  blessed  air,  that's  breathed  by  the* 
And  whether  on  its  wings  it  bear 
t        Healing  or  death,  His  sweet  to  me ! 
There  —  drink  my  tears,  while  yet  they  fal 

Would  that  my  bosom's  blood  were  balm 
And  well  thou  know'st,  I'd  shed  it  all, 

To  give  thy  brow  one  minute's  calm. 


PARADISE  AND    THE  PERI.         133 

Nay,  turn  not  from  me  that  dear  face  — 

Am  I  not  thine? —  thine  own  loved  bride?-— 
The  one,  the  chosen  one,  whose  place 

In  life  or  death  is  by  thy  side? 
Think'st  thou  that  she,  whose  only  light 

In  this  dim  world  from  thee  hath  shone, 
Could  bear  the  long,  the  cheerless  night, 

That  must  be  hers  when  thou  art  gone? 
That  I  can  live,  and  let  thee  go, 
Who  art  my  life  itself? —  No,  no  !  — 
When  the  stem  dies,  the  leaf  that  grew 
Out  of  its  heart  must  perish  too ! 
Then  turn  to  me,  mine  own  love,  turn, 
Before,  like  thee,  I  fade  and  burn ; 
Cling  to  these  yet  cool  lips,  and  share 
The  last  pure  life  that  lingers  there !  " 
She  fails  —  she  sinks  —  as  dies  the  lamp 
In  charnel  airs  or  cavern-damp, 
So  quickly  do  his  baleful  sighs 
Quench  all  the  sweet  light  of  her  eyes. 
One  struggle,  and  his  pain  is  past ! 

Her  lover  is  no  longer  living ! 
One  kiss  the  maiden  gives,  one  last 

Long  kiss,  which  she  expires  in  giving! 


"  Sleep,"  said  the  Peri,  as  softly  she  stole 
The  farewell  sigh  of  that  vanishing  soul  — 
As  true  as  e'er  warm' d  a  woman's  breast ; 
"  Sleep  on,  in  visions  of  odor  rest, 
E 


134  LALLA   ROOKH. 

In  balmier  airs  than  ever  yet  stirr1d 
The  enchanted  pile  of  that  lonely  bird, 
Who  sings  at  thj  last  his  own  death-lay, 
And  in  music  and  perfume  dies  away ! " 


Thus  saying,  from  her  lips  she  spread 

Unearthly  breathings  through  the  place, 
And  shook  her  sparkling  wreath,  and  shed 

Such  lustre  o'er  each  paly  face, 
That  like  two  lovely  saints  they  seem'd, 

Upon  the  eve  of  doomsday  taken 
From  their  dim  graves,  in  odor  sleeping,  — 
While  that  benevolent  Peri  beanVd 
Like  their  good  angel,  calmly  keeping 

Watch  o'er  them  till  their  souls  would  waken. 


But  morn  is  blushing  in  the  sky : 

Again  the  Peri  soars  above, 
Bearing  to  Heaven  that  precious  sigh 

Of  pure  self-sacrificing  love. 
High  throbb'd  her  heart,  with  hope  elate ; 

The  Elysian  palm  she  soon  shall  win, 
For  the  bright  Spirit  at  the  gate 

Smiled  as  she  gave  that  offering  in; 
And  she  already  hears  the  trees 

Of  Eden,  with  their  crystal  bells 
Ringing  in  that  ambrosial  breeze 

That  from  the  throne  of  Alia  swells ; 


PARADISE  AND    THE  PERt          135 

And  she  can  see  the  starry  bowls 

That  lie  around  that  lucid  lake, 
Upon  whose  banks  admitted  Souls 

Their  first  sweet  draught  of  glory  take  ? 

But  ah  !  even  Peris'  hopes  are  vain  :  — 

Again  the  Fates  forbade,  again 

The  immortal  barrier  closed  :  —  "Not  yet.'* 

The  Angel  said,  as  with  regret 

He  shut  from  her  that  glimpse  of  glory ; 

"  True  was  the  maiden,  and  her  story, 

Written  in  light  o'er  Alla's  head, 

By  seraph  eyes  shall  long  be  read. 

But,  Peri,  see  —  the  crystal  bar 

Of  Eden  moves  not  —  holier  far 

Than  even  this  sigh  the  boon  must  be 

That  opes  the  Gates  of  Heaven  for  thee.w 

Now,  upon  Syria's  land  of  roses 
Softly  the  light  of  Eve  reposes, 
And,  like  a  glory,  the  broad  sun 
Hangs  over  sainted  Lebanon  ; 
Whose  head  in  wintry  grandeur  towers, 

And  whitens  with  eternal  sleet, 
While  Summer,  in  a  vale  of  flowers, 

Is  sleeping  rosy  at  his  feet. 

To  one  who  look'd  from  upper  air 
O'er  all  the  enchanted  regions  there, 
How  beauteous  must  have  been  the  glow. 
The  life,  the  sparkling,  from  below ! 


136  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Fair  gardens,  shining  streams,  with  ranks 
Of  golden  melons  on  their  banks, 
More  golden  where  the  sunlight  falls ; 
Gay  lizards,  glittering  on  the  walls 

Of  ruin'd  shrines,  busy  and  bright 
As  they  were  all  alive  with  light ; 
And  yet  more  splendid,  numerous  flocks 
Of  pigeons,  settling  on  the  rocks, 
With  their  rich  restless  wings  that  gleam 
Variously  in  the  crimson  beam 
Of  the  warm  West,  —  as  if  inlaid 
With  brilliants  from  the  mine,  or  made 
Of  tearless  rainbows  such  as  span 
The  unclouded  skies  of  Peristan. 
And  then  the  mingling  sounds  that  come 
Of  shepherd's  ancient  reed,  with  hum 
Of  the  wild  bees  of  Palestine, 

Banquetting  through  the  flowery  vales ; 
And,  Jordan,  those  sweet  banks  of  thine, 

And  woods,  so  full  of  nightingales. 

But  nought  can  charm  the  luckless  Peri : 
Her  soul  is  sad,  her  wings  are  weary : 
Joyless  she  sees  the  Sun  look  down 
On  that  great  Temple,  once  his  own, 
Whose  lonely  columns  stand  sublime, 

Flinging  their  shadows  from  on  high, 
Like  dials  which  the  wizard  Time 

Had  raised  to  count  his  ages  by ! 


PARADISE  AND    THE  PERL 

Yet  haply  there  may  lie  conceal'd 

Beneath  those  Chambers  of  the  Sun, 
Some  amulet  of  gems  anneal'd 
In  upper  fires,  some  tablet  seal'd 
With  the  great  name  of  Solomon, 
Which,  spell'd  by  her  illumined  eyes, 
May  teach  her  where,  beneath  the  moon, 
In  earth  or  ocean,  lies  the  boon, 
The  charm  that  can  restore  so  soon 
An  erring  Spirit  to  the  skies. 


Cheer'd  by  this  hope,  she  bends  her  thither:  — 
Still  laughs  the  radiant  eye  of  Heaven,  — 
Nor  have  the  golden  bowers  of  Even 

In  the  rich  West  begun  to  wither ; 

When,  o'er  the  vale  of  Balbec  winging 
Slowly,  she  sees  a  child  at  play, 

Among  the  rosy  wild-flowers  singing, 
As  rosy  and  as  wild  as  they ; 

Chasing,  with  eager  hands  and  eyes, 

The  beautiful  blue  damsel-flies 

That  fluttered  round  the  jasmine  stems, 

Like  winged  flowers  or  flying  gems  :  — 

And,  near  the  boy,  who,  tired  with  play, 

Now  nestling  'mid  the  roses  lay, 

She  saw  a  wearied  man  dismount 
From  his  hot  steed,  and  on  the  brink 

Of  a  small  imaret's  rustic  fount 
Impatient  fling  him  down  to  drink. 


138  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Then  swift  his  haggard  brow  he  turned 

To  the  fair  child,  who  fearless  sat, 
Though  never  yet  hath  day-beam  burn'd 
Upon  a  brow  more  fierce  than  that,  — 
Sullenly  fierce,  a  mixture  dire, 
Like  thunder-clouds,  of  gloom  and  fire, 
In  which  the  Peri's  eye  could  read 
Dark  tales  of  many  a  ruthless  deed : 
The  ruin'd  maid  —  the  shrine  profaned  — 
Oaths  broken  —  and  the  threshold  stain'd 
With  blood  of  guests  !  —  there  written,  all, 
Black  as  the  damning  drops  that  fall 
From  the  denouncing  Angel's  pen, 
Ere  Mercy  weeps  them  out  again. 

Yet  tranquil  now  that  man  of  crime 
(As  if  the  balmy  evening  time 
Soften'd  his  spirit)  look'd  and  lay, 
Watching  the  rosy  infant's  play :  — 
Though  still,  whene'er  his  eye  by  chanc* 
Fell  on  the  boy's,  its  lurid  glance 

Met  that  unclouded  joyous  gaze,  — 
As  torches  that  have  burnt  all  night 
Through  some  impure  and  godless  rite, 

Encounter  morning's  glorious  rays. 

But  hark !  the  vesper  call  to  prayer, 
As  slow  the  orb  of  daylight  sets, 

Is  rising  sweetly  on  the  air, 

From  Syria's  thousand  minarets  I 


PARADISE  AND    THE   PERI.         139 

The  boy  has  started  from  the  bed 
Of  flowers  where  he  had  laid  his  head, 
And  down  upon  the  fragrant  sod 

Kneels,  with  his  forehead  to  the  south 
Lisping  the  eternal  name  of  God 

From  Purity's  own  cherub  mouth, 
And  looking,  while  his  hands  and  eyes 
Are  lifted  to  the  glowing  skies, 
Like  a  stray  babe  of  Paradise, 
Just  lighted  on  that  flowery  plain, 
And  seeking  for  its  home  again. 
Oh,  'twas  a  sight  —  that  Heaven  —  that  child  — 
A  scene  which  might  have  well  beguiled 
Even  haughty  Eblis  of  a  sigh 
For  glories  lost  and  peace  gone  by  ! 

And  how  felt  he,  the  wretched  man 

Reclining  there  —  while  memory  ran 

O'er  many  a  year  of  guilt  and  strife, 

Flew  o'er  the  dark  flood  of  his  life, 

Nor  found  one  sunny  resting-place, 

Nor  brought  him  back  one  branch  of  grace! 

"  There  was  a  time,"  he  said,  in  mild 

Heart-humbled  tones,  "  thou  blessed  child! 

When,  young  and  haply  pure  as  thou, 

I  look'd  and  pray'd  like  thee ;  but  now"  — 

He  hung  his  head  :  each  nobler  aim, 

And  hope,  and  feeling,  which  had  slept 
From  boyhood's  hour,  that  instant  came 

Fresh  o'er  him,  and  he  wept  —  he  wept ! 


I4O  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Blest  tears  of  soul-felt  penitence ! 

In  whose  benign  redeeming  flow 
Is  felt  the  first,  the  only  sense 

Of  guiltless  joy  that  guilt  can  know. 
"  There's  a  drop,"  said  the  Peri,  "  that  down  from 

the  moon 

Falls  through  the  withering  airs  of  June 
Upon  Egypt's  land,  of  so  healing  a  power, 
So  balmy  a  virtue,  that  e'en  in  the  hour 
The  drop  descends,  contagion  dies, 
And  health  re-animates  earth  and  skies !  — 
Oh,  it  is  not  thus,  thou  man  of  sin, 

The  precious  tears  of  repentance  fall? 
Though  foul  thy  fiery  plagues  within, 

One  heavenly  drop  hath  dispell'd  them  all ! " 

And  now,  behold  him  kneeling  there 

By  the  child's  side,  in  humble  prayer, 

While  the  same  sunbeam  shines  upon 

The  guilty  and  the  guiltless  one, 

And  hymns  of  joy  proclaim  through  Heaven 

The  triumph  of  a  Soul  Forgiven ! 

'  Twas  when  the  golden  orb  had  set, 

While  on  their  knees  they  linger'd  yet, 

There  fell  a  light  more  lovely  far 

Than  ever  came  from  sun  or  star, 

Upon  the  tear  that,  warm  and  meek, 

Dew'd  that  repentant  sinner's  cheek. 

To  mortal  eye  this  light  might  seem 

A  northern  flash  or  meteor  beam,  — 


PARADISE  AND    THE  PERL         141 

But  well  the  enraptured  Peri  knew 
1  Twas  a  bright  smile  the  Angel  threw 
From  Heaven's  gate,  to  hail  that  tear 
Her  harbinger  of  glory  near ! 

"Joy,  joy  forever!  my  task  is  done  — 

The  Gates  are  pass'd,  and  Heaven  is  won ! 
Oh,  am  I  not  happy  ?     I  am,  I  am  — 

To  thee,  sweet  Eden !  how  dark  and  sad 
Are  the  diamond  turrets  of  Shadukiam, 

And  the  fragrant  bowers  of  Amberabad  ! 
Farewell,  ye  odors  of  Earth,  that  die 
Passing  away  like  a  lover's  sigh  ! 
My  feast  is  now  of  the  Tooba  Tree, 
Whose  scent  is  the  breath  of  Eternity  ! 
Farewell,  ye  vanishing  flowers,  that  shone 

In  my  fairy  wreath,  so  bright  and  brief! 
Oh,  what  are  the  brightest  that  e'er  have  blown,. 
To  the  lote-tree,  springing  by  Alla's  throne, 

Whose  flowers  have  a  soul  in  every  leaf! 
Joy,  joy  forever  !  —  my  task  is  done  !  — 
The  Gates  are  pass'd,  and  Heaven  is  won ! " 


"AND  this,"  said  the  Great  Chamberlain,  "is 
poetry !  this  flimsy  manufacture  of  the  brain, 
which,  in  comparison  wHh  the  lofty  and  durable 
monuments  of  genius,  is  as  the  gold  filigree-work 
of  Zamara  beside  the  eternal  architecture  of 


142  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Egypt ! "  After  this  gorgeous  sentence,  which, 
with  a  few  more  of  the  same  kind,  Fadladeen  kept 
by  him  for  rare  and  important  occasions,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  the  anatomy  of  the  short  poem  just 
recited.  The  lax  and  easy  kind  of  metre  in  which 
it  was  written  ought  to  be  denounced,  he  said,  as 
one  of  the  leading  causes  of  the  alarming  growth  of 
poetry  in  our  times.  If  some  check  were  not 
given  to  this  lawless  facility,  we  should  soon  be 
overrun  by  a  race  of  bards  as  numerous  and  as 
shallow  as  the  hundred-and-twenty  thousand 
streams  of  Basra.  They  who  succeeded  in  this 
style  deserved  chastisement  for  their  very  success, 
—  as  warriors  have  been  punished,  even  after  gain- 
ing a  victory,  because  they  had  taken  the  liberty  of 
gaining  it  in  an  irregular  or  unestablished  manner. 
What,  then,  was  to  be  said  to  those  who  failed?  to 
those  who  presumed,  as  in  the  present  lamentable 
instance,  to  imitate  the  license  and  ease  of  the 
bolder  sons  of  song,  without  any  of  that  grace  or 
vigor  which  gave  a  dignity  even  to  negligence,  — 
who,  like  them,  flung  the  jereed  carelessly,  but  not, 
like  them,  to  the  mark;  —  "and  who."  said  he, 
raising  his  voice  to  excite  a  proper  degree  of 
wakefulness  in  his  hearers,  "  contrive  to  appear 
heavy  and  constrained  in  the  midst  of  all  the  lati- 
tude they  allow  themselves,  like  one  of  those 
young  pagans  that  dance  before  the  Princess,  who 
is  ingenious  enough  to  move  as  if  her  limbs  were 
fettered,  in  a  pair  of  the  lightest  a.ud  loosest 
drawers  of  Masulipatam !  " 


PARADISE   AND    THE  PERL         143 

It  was  but  little  suitable,  he  continued,  to  the 
grave  march  of  criticism,  to  follow  this  fantastical 
Peri,  of  whom  they  had  just  heard,  through  all 
her  flights  and  adventures  between  earth  and 
Heaven ;  but  he  could  not  help  adverting  to  the 
puerile  conceitedness  of  the  Three  Gifts  which  she 
is  supposed  to  carry  to  the  skies,  —  a  drop  of 
blood,  forsooth,  a  sigh,  and  a  tear !  How  the  first 
of  these  articles  was  delivered  into  the  Angel's 
"  radiant  hand  "  he  professed  himself  at  a  loss  to 
discover ;  and  as  to  the  safe  carriage  of  the  sigh 
and  the  tear,  such  Peris  and  such  poets  were 
beings  by  far  too  incomprehensible  for  him  even  to 
guess  how  they  managed  such  matters.  "  But,  in 
short,"  said  he,  "  it  is  a  waste  of  time  and  patience 
to  dwell  longer  upon  a  thing  so  incurably  frivolous, 
—  puny  even  among  its  own  puny  race,  and  such  as 
only  the  Banyan  Hospital  for  Sick  Insects  should 
undertake." 

In  vain  did  Lalla  Rookh  try  to  soften  this  inex. 
orable  critic ;  in  vain  did  she  resort  to  her  most 
eloquent  common-places,  —  reminding  him  that 
poets  were  a  timid  and  sensitive  race,  whose  sweet- 
ness was  not  to  be  drawn  forth,  like  that  of  the 
fragrant  grass  near  the  Ganges,  by  crushing  and 
trampling  upon  them  ;  —  that  severity  often  extin- 
guished every  chance  of  the  perfection  which  it 
demanded;  and  that,  after  all,  perfection  was  like 
the  Mountain  of  the  Talisman,  —  no  one  had  ever 
yet  reached  its  summit.  Neither  these  gentle 


144  LALLA   ROOKH. 

axioms,  nor  the  still  gentler  looks  with  which  they 
were  inculcated,  could  lower  for  one  instant  the 
elevation  of  Fadladeen's  eyebrows,  or  charm  him 
into  anything  like  encouragement,  or  even  tolera- 
tion of  her  poet.  Toleration,  indeed,  was  not 
among  the  weaknesses  of  Fadladeen  :  —  he  carried 
the  same  spirit  into  matters  of  poetry  and  of  reli- 
gion, and  though  little  versed  in  the  beauties  or 
sublimities  of  either,  was  a  perfect  master  of  the 
art  of  persecution  in  both.  His  zeal  was  the  same, 
too,  in  either  pursuit,  —  whether  the  game  before 
him  was  pagans  or  poetasters,  worshippers  of  cows 
or  writers  of  epics. 

They  had  now  arrived  at  the  splendid  city  of 
Lahore,  whose  mausoleums  and  shrines,  magnifi- 
cent and  numberless,  where  Death  appeared  to 
share  equal  honors  with  Heaven,  would  have 
powerfully  affected  the  heart  and  imagination  of 
Laila  Rookh,  if  feelings  more  of  this  earth  had  not 
taken  entire  possession  of  her  already.  She  was 
here  met  by  messengers,  despatched  from  Cash- 
mere, who  informed  her  that  the  King  had  arrived 
in  the  Valley,  and  was  himself  superintending  the 
sumptuous  preparations  that  were  then  making  in 
the  Saloons  of  the  Shalimar  for  her  reception. 
The  chill  she  felt  on  receiving  this  intelligence,  — 
which  to  a  bride  whose  heart  was  free  and  light 
would  have  brought  only  images  of  affection  and 
pleasure,  —  convinced  her  that  her  peace  was 
gene  forever,  and  that  she  was  in  love,  irretriev- 


PARADISE  AND    THE  PERL         145 

ably  in  love,  with  young  Feramorz.  The  veil  had 
fallen  off  in  which  this  passion  at  first  disguises 
itself,  and  to  know  that  she  loved  was  now  as  pain- 
ful as  to  love  without  knowing  it  had  been 
delicious.  Feramorz,  too,  —  what  misery  would  be 
his,  if  the  sweet  hours  of  intercourse  so  imprudently 
allowed  them  should  have  stolen  into  his  heart  the 
same  fatal  fascination  as  into  hers ;  if,  notwith- 
standing her  rank,  and  the  modest  homage  he 
always  paid  to  it,  even  he  should  have  yielded  to 
the  influence  of  those  long  and  happy  interviews 
where  music,  poetry,  the  delightful  scenes  of 
nature,  —  all  had  tended  to  bring  their  hearts  close 
together,  and  to  waken  by  every  means  that  too 
ready  passion,  which  often,  like  the  young  of  the 
desert-bird,  is  warmed  into  life  by  the  eyes  alone  ! 
She  saw  but  one  way  to  preserve  herself  from  be- 
ing culpable  as  well  as  unhappy,  and  this,  however 
painful,  she  was  resolved  to  adopt.  Feramorz 
must  no  more  be  admitted  to  her  presence.  To 
have  strayed  so  far  into  the  dangerous  labyrinth 
was  wrong,  but  to  linges  in  it,  while  the  clew  was 
yet  in  her  hand,  would  be  criminal.  Though  the 
heart  she  had  to  offer  to  the  King  of  Bucharia 
might  be  cold  and  broken,  it  should  at  least  be 
pure ;  and  she  must  only  endeavor  to  forget,  the 
short  dream  of  happiness  she  had  enjoyed,  —  like 
that  Arabian  shepherd,  who,  in  wandering  into  the 
wilderness,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Gardens  of  Irim, 
and  then  lost  them  again  forever ! 


146  LALLA   ROOKH. 

The  arrival  of  the  young  Bride  at  Lahore  was 
celebrated  in  the  most  enthusiastic  manner.  The 
Rajas  and  Omras  in  her  train,  who  had  kept  at  a 
certain  distance  during  the  journey,  and  never  en- 
camped nearer  to  the  Princess  than  was  strictly 
necessary  for  her  safeguard,  here  rode  in  splendid 
cavalcade  through  the  city,  and  distributed  the  most 
costly  presents  to  the  crowd.  Engines  were  erected 
in  all  the  squares,  which  cast  forth  showers  of  con- 
fectionery among  the  people  ;  while  the  artisans,  in 
chariots  adorned  with  tinsel  and  flying  streamers, 
exhibited  the  badges  of  their  respective  trades 
through  the  streets.  Such  brilliant  displays  of  life 
and  pageantry  among  the  palaces,  and  domes,  and 
gilded  minarets  of  Lahore,  made  the  city  altogether 
like  a  place  of  enchantment,  —  particularly  on  the  day 
when  Lalla  Rookh  set  out  again  upon  her  journey, 
when  she  was  accompanied  to  the  gate  by  all  the  fair- 
est and  richest  of  the  nobility,  and  rode  along  between 
ranks  of  beautiful  boys  and  girls,  who  kept  waving 
over  their  heads  plates  of  gold  and  silver  flowers, 
and  then  threw  them  arotmd  to  be  gathered  by  the 
populace. 

For  many  days  after  their  departure  from  Lahore, 
a  considerable  degree  of  gloom  hung  over  the  whole 
party.  Lalla  Rookh, who  had  intended  to  make  illness 
her  excuse  for  not  admitting  the  young  minstrel,  as 
usual,  to  the  pavilion,  soon  found  that  to  feign  in- 
disposition was  unnecessary ;  Fadladeen  felt  the 
loss  of  the  good  road  they  had  hitherto  travelled, 


PARADISE  AND    THE  PERI. 


and  was  very  near  cursing  Jehan-Guire  (of  blessed 
memory  !)  for  not  having  continued  his  delectable 
alley  of  trees,  at  least  as  far  as  the  mountains  of 
Cashmere;  while  the  Ladies,  who  had  nothing  now 
to  do  all  day  but  to  be  fanned  by  peacocks'  feathers 
and  listen  to  Fadladeen,  seemed  heartily  weary  of 
the  life  they  led,  and,  in  spite  of  all  the  Great  Cham- 
berlain's criticisms,  were  so  tasteless  as  to  wish  for 
the  poet  again.  One  evening,  as  they  were  proceed- 
ing to  their  place  of  rest,  for  the  night,  the  Princess, 
who,  for  the  freer  enjoyment  of  the  air,  had  mounted 
her  favorite  Arabian  palfrey,  in  passing  by  a  small 
grove  heard  the  notes  of  a  lute  from  within  its 
leaves,  and  a  voice,  which  she  but  too  well  knew, 
singing  the  following  words  :  — 

TELL  me  not  of  joys  above, 
If  that  world  can  give  no  bliss, 

Truer,  happier  than  the  Love 
Which  enslaves  our  souls  in  this. 

Tell  me  not  of  Houris"  eyes;  — 
Far  from  me  their  dangerous  glow, 

If  those  looks  that  light  the  skies 
Wound  like  some  that  burn  below. 

Who,  that  feels  that  Love  is  here, 
All  its  falsehood,  —  all  its  pain,—' 

Would,  for  even  Elysium's  sphere, 
Risk  the  fatal  dream  again? 


148  LALLA    ROOKH. 

Who,  that  midst  a  desert's  heat 

Sees  the  waters  fade  away, 
Would  not  rather  die  than  meet 

Streams  again  as  false  as  they? 

The  tone  of  melancholy  defiance  in  which  these 
words  were  uttered,  went  to  Lalla  Rookh's  heart ; 
and  as  she  reluctantly  rode  on,  she  could  not  help 
feeling  it  to  be  a  sad  but  still  sweet  certainty,  that 
Feramorz  was  to  the  full  as  enamoured  and  misera- 
ble as  herself. 

The  place  where  they  encamped  that  evening  was 
the  first  delightful  spot  they  had  come  to  since  they 
left  Lahore.  On  one  side  of  them  was  a  grove  full 
of  small  Hindoo  temples,  and  planted  with  the  most 
graceful  trees  of  the  East ;  where  the  tamarind,  the 
cassia,  and  the  silken  plantains  of  Ceylon,  were  min- 
gled in  rich  contrast  with  the  high  fan-like  foliage 
of  the  Palmyra,  —  that  favorite  tree  of  the  luxurious 
bird  that  lights  up  the  chambers  of  its  nest  with 
fire-flies.  In  the  middle  of  the  lawn  where  the 
pavilion  stood  there  was  a  tank  surrounded  by  small 
mango-trees,  on  the  clear  cold  waters  of  which  floated 
multitudes  of  the  beautiful  red  lotus  ;  while  at  a  dis- 
tance stood  the  ruins  of  a  strange  and  awful -look- 
ing tower,  which  seemed  old  enough  to  have  been 
the  temple  of  some  religion  no  longer  known,  and 
which  spoke  the  voice  of  desolation  in  the  midst  of 
all  that  bloom  and  loveliness.  This,  singular  ruin  • 
excited  the  wonder  and  conjectures  of  alj.  Lalla 


PARADISE  AND    THE  PERI.         149 

Rookh  guessed  in  vain,  and  the  all-pretending  Fad- 
ladeen,  who  had  never  till  this  journey  been  beyond 
the  precincts  of  Delhi,  was  proceeding  most  learn- 
edly to  show  that  he  knew  nothing  whatever  about 
the  matter,  when  one  of  the  Ladies  suggested  that 
perhaps  Feramorz  could  satisfy  their  curiosity.  They 
were  now  approaching  his  native  mountains,  and 
this  tower  might  perhaps  be  a  relic  of  some  of 
those  dark  superstitions  which  had  prevailed  in 
that  country  before  the  light  of  Islam  dawned  upon 
it.  The  Chamberlain,  who  usually  preferred  his 
own  ignorance  to  the  best  knowledge  that  any  one 
else  could  give  him,  was  by  no  means  pleased  with 
this  officious  reference,  and  the  Princess,  too,  was 
about  to  interpose  a  faint  word  of  objection ;  but, 
before  either  of  them  could  speak,  a  slave  was  de- 
spatched for  Feramorz,  who,  in  a  very  few  minutes, 
made  his  appearance  before  them,  —  looking  so  pale 
and  unhappy  in  Lalla  Rookh's  eyes,  that  she  re- 
pented already  of  her  cruelty  in  having  so  long 
excluded  him. 

That  venerable  tower,  he  told  them,  was  the  re- 
mains of  an  ancient  Fire-temple,  built  by  those 
Ghebers  or  Persians  of  the  old  religion,  who,  many 
hundred  years  since,  had  fled  hither  from  their  Arab 
conquerors,  preferring  liberty  and  their  altars  in  a 
foreign  land  to  the  alternative  of  apostasy  or  per- 
secution in  their  own.  It  was  impossible,  he  added, 
not  to  feel  interested  in  the  many  glorious  but  un- 
successful struggles  which  had  been  made  by  these 


150  LALLA   ROOKH. 

original  natives  of  Persia  to  cast  off  the  yoke  of 
their  bigoted  conquerors.  Like  their  own  Fire  in 
the  Burning  Field  at  Bakou,  when  suppressed  in 
one  place  they  had  but  broken  out  with  fresh  flame 
in  another;  and,  as  a  native  of  Cashmere,  of  that 
fair  and  Holy  Valley  which  had  in  the  same  man- 
ner become  the  prey  of  strangers,  and  seen  her 
ancient  shrines  and  native  princes  swept  away  before 
the  march  of  her  intolerant  invaders,  he  felt  a  sym- 
pathy, he  owned,  with  the  sufferings  of  the  perse- 
cuted Ghebers,  wl:ich  every  monument  like  this 
before  them  but  tended  more  powerfully  to  awaken. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  Feramorz  had  ever 
ventured  upon  so  much  prose  before  Fadladeen, 
and  it  may  easily  be  conceived  what  effect  such 
prose  as  this  must  have  produced  upon  that  most 
orthodox  and  most  pagan-hating  personage.  He 
sat  for  some  minutes  aghast,  ejaculating  only  at 
intervals,  "  Bigoted  conquerors !  sympathy  with 
Fire-worshippers!"  —  while  Feramorz,  happy  to 
take  advantage  of  -this  almost  speechless  horror  of 
the  Chamberlain,  proceeded  to  say  that  he  knew  a 
melancholy  story,  connected  with  the  events  of  one 
of  those  struggles  of  the  brave  Fire-worshippers 
against  their  Arab  masters,  which,  if  the  evening 
was  not  too  far  advanced,  he  should  have  much 
pleasure  in  being  allowed  to  relate  to  the  Princess. 
It  was  impossible  for  Lalla  Rookh  to  refuse :  he  • 
had  never  before  looked  half  so  animated,  and 
when  he  spoke  of  the  Holy  Valley,  his  eyes  had 


PARADISE   AND    THE  PERI.         I$I 

sparkled,  she  thought,  like  the  talismanic  characters 
on  the  scimitar  of  Solomon.  Her  consent  was 
therefore  most  readily  granted ;  and  while  Fadla- 
deen  sat  in  unspeakable  dismay,  expecting  treason 
and  abomination  in  every  line,  the  poet  thus  began 
his  story  of  the  Fire-worshippers. 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 


Trs  moonlight  over  Oman's  Sea ; 

Her  banks  of  pearl  and  balmy  isles 
Bask  in  the  night-beam  beauteously, 

And  her  blue  waters  sleep  in  smiles. 
'Tis  moonlight  in  Harmozia's  walls, 
And  through  her  Emir's  porphyry  halls, 
Where,  some  hours  since,  was  heard  the  swell 
Of  trumpet  and  the  clash  of  zel, 
Bidding  the  bright-eyed  sun  farewell,  — 
The  peaceful  sun,  whom  better  suits 

The  music  of  the  bulbul's  nest, 
Or  the  light  touch  of  lovers1  lutes, 

To  sing  him  to  his  golden  rest. 
All  hush'd  —  there's  not  a  breeze  in  motion : 
The  shore  is  silent  as  the  ocean : 
If  zephyrs  come,  so  light  they  come 

Nor  leaf  is  stirr'd  nor  wave  is  driven : 
The  wind-tower  on  the  Emir's  dome 

Can  hardly  win  a  breath  from  heaven. 

Even  he,  that  tyrant  Arab,  sleeps 
Calm,  while  a  nation  round  him  weeps ; 
152 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  I $3 

While  curses  load  the  air  he  breathes, 
And  falchions  from  unnumber'd  sheaths 
Are  starting  to  avenge  the  shame 
His  race  hath  brought  on  Iran's  name. 
Hard,  heartless  Chief,  unmoved  alike 
'Mid  eyes  that  weep,  and  swords  that  strike ; 
One  of  that  saintly,  murderous  brood, 

To  carnage  and  the  Koran  given, 
Who  think  through  unbelievers1  blood 

Lies  their  directest  path  to  heaven ;  — 
One  who  will  pause  and  kneel  unshod 

In  the  warm  blood  his  hand  hath  pour'd. 
To  mutter  o'er  some  text  of  God 

Engraven  on  his  reeking  sword ; 
Nay,  who  can  coolly  note  the  line, 
The  letter  of  those  words  divine, 
To  which  his  blade,  with  searching  art, 
Had  sunk  into  its  victim's  heart ! 


Just  Alia  !  what  must  be  thy  look, 

When  such  a  wretch  before  thee  stands 
Unblushing,  with  thy  Sacred  Book,  — 

Turning  the  leaves  with  blood-stain'd  hands, 
And  wresting  from  its  page  sublime 
His  creed  of  lust,  and  hate,  and  crime : 
Even  as  those  bees  of  Trebizond, 

Which,  from  the  sunniest  flowers  that  glad 
With  their  pure  smiles  the  gardens  round, 

Draw  venom  forth  that  drives  men  mad. 


154  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Never  did  fierce  Arabia  send 

A  satrap  forth  more  direly  great ; 
Never  was  Iran  doom'd  to  bend 

Beneath  a  yoke  of  deadlier  weight. 
Her  throne  had  fallen  —  her  pride  was  crush'd  — 
Her  sons  were  willing  slaves,  nor  blush'd, 
In  their  own  land  —  no  more  their  own  — 
To  crouch  beneath  a  stranger's  throne. 
Her  towers,  where  Mithra  once  had  burn'd, 
To  Moslem  shrine  —  O  shame  !  —  were  turn'd, 
Where  slaves,  converted  by  the  sword, 
Their  mean  apostate  worship  pour'd, 
And  cursed  the  faith  their  sires  adored. 
Yet  has  she  hearts,  'mid  all  this  ill, 
O'er  all  this  wreck,  high,  buoyant  still 
With  hope  and  vengeance  ;  hearts  that  y«*  •— 

Like  gems,  in  darkness,  issuing  rays 
They've  treasured  from  the  sun  that's  set,  - 

Beam  all  the  light  of  long-lost  days  ! 
And  swords  she  hath,  nor  weak  nor  slow 

To  second  all  such  hearts  can  dare ; 
As  he  shall  know,  well,  dearly  know, 

Who  sleeps  in  moonlight  luxury  there, 
Tranquil  as  if  his  spirit  lay 
Becalm'd  in  Heaven's  approving  ray. 
Sleep  on,  —  for  purer  eyes  than  thine 
Those  waves  are  hush'd,  those  planets  shine; 
Sleep  on,  and  be  thy  rest  unmoved 

By  the  white  moonbeam's  dazzling  power :  — • 
None  but  the  loving  and  the  loved 

Should  be  awake  at  this  sweet  hour. 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  1 55 

And  see  —  where,  high  above  those  rocks 
That  o'er  the  deep  their  shadows  fling, 

Yon  turret  stands  ;  where  ebon  locks, 
As  glossy  as  a  heron's  wing 
Upon  the  turban  of  a  king, 

Hang  from  the  lattice,  long  and  wild  — 

'Tis  she,  that  Emir's  blooming  child, 

All  truth  and  tenderness  and  grace, 

Though  born  of  such  ungentle  race : 

An  image  of  Youth's  radiant  Fountain 

Springing  in  a  desolate  mountain  ! 


Oh,  what  a  pure  and  sacred  thing 

Is  beauty,  curtained  from  the  sight 
Of  the  gross  world,  illumining 

One  only  mansion  with  her  light ! 
Unseen  by  man's  disturbing  eye, — 

The  flower  that  blooms  beneath  the  sea, 
Too  deep  for  sunbeams,  doth  not  lie 

Hid  in  more  chaste  obscurity. 
So,  Hinda,  have  thy  face  and  mind, 
Like  holy  mysteries,  lain  enshrined. 
And  oh,  what  transport  for  a  lover 

To  lift  the  veil  that  shades  them  o'er!  — 
Like  those  who,  all  at  once,  discover 

In  the  lone  deep  some  fairy  shore, 

Where  mortal  never  trod  before, 
And  sleep  and  wake  in  scented  airs 
No  lip  had  ever  breathed  but  theirs. 


156  LALLA   RGOKff. 

Beautiful  are  the  maids  that  glide, 

On  summer-eves,  through  Yemen's  dales, 
And  bright  the  glancing  looks  they  hide 

Behind  their  litters'  roseate  veils; 
And  brides,  as  delicate  and  fair 
As  the  white  jasmine  flowers  they  wear, 
Hath  Yemen  in  her  blissful  clime, 

Who,  lull'd  in  cool  kiosk  or  bower, 
Before  their  mirrors  count  the  time, 

And  grow  still  lovelier  every  hour. 
But  never  yet  hath  bride  or  maid 

In  Araby's  gay  Haram  smiled, 
Whose  boasted  brightness  would  not  fade 

Before  Al  Hassan's  blooming  child. 

Light  as  the  angel  shapes  that  bless 
An  infant's  dream,  yet  not  the  less 
Rich  in  all  woman's  loveliness ; 
With  eyes  so  pure,  that  from  their  ray 
Dark  Vice  would  turn  abash'd  away, 
Blinded  like  serpents  when  they  gaze 
Upon  the  emerald's  virgin  blaze ; 
Yet  fill'd  with  all  youth's  sweet  desires, 
Mingling  the  meek  and  vestal  fires 
Of  other  worlds  with  all  the  bliss, 
The  fond  weak  tenderness  of  this : 
A  soul,  too,  more  than  half  divine, 

Where,  through  some  shades  of  earthly  feeling, 
Religion's  soften'd  glories  shine, 

Like  light  through  summer  foliage  stealing, 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

Shedding  a  glow  of  such  mild  hue, 
So  warm,  and  yet  so  shadowy  too, 
As  makes  the  very  darkness  there 
More  beautiful  than  light  elsewhere.   ' 

Such  is  the  maid  who,  at  this  hour, 

Hath  risen  from  her  restless  sleep, 
And  sits  alone  in  that  high  bower, 

Watching  the  still  and  shining  deep. 
Ah  !  'twas  not  thus  —  with  tearful  eyes 

And  beating  heart  —  she  used  to  gaze 
On  the  magnificent  earth  and  skies, 

In  her  own  land,  in  happier  days. 
Why  looks  she  now  so  anxious  down 
Among  those  rocks,  whosj  rugged  frown 

Blackens  the  mirror  of  the  deep? 
Whom  waits  she  all  this  lonely  night  ? 

Too  rough  the  rocks,  too  bold  the  steep, 
For  man  to  scale  that  turret's  height !  — 

So  deem  d  at  least  her  thoughtful  sire, 

When  high,  to  catch  the  cool  night-air, 
After  the  day-beam's  withering  fire, 

He  built  her  bower  of  freshness  there, 
And  had  it  deck'd  with  costliest  skill, 

And  fondly  thought  it  safe  as  fair  •  — 
Think,  reverend  dreamer!  think  so  still, 

Nor  wake  to  learn  what  love  can  dare  — 
Love,  all-defying  Love,  who  sees 
No  charm  in  trophies  won  with  ease ; 


1 58  LALLA   ROOKff. 

Whose  rarest,  dearest  fruits  of  bliss 
Are  pluck'd  on  Danger's  precipice  ! 
Bolder  than  they  who  dare  not  dive 

For  pearls,  but  when  the  sea's  at  rest, 
Love,  in  the  tempest  most  alive, 
Hath  ever  held  that  pearl  the  best 
He  finds  beneath  the  stormiest  water. 
Yes  —  Araby's  unrivall'd  daughter, 
Though  high  that  tower,  that  rock- way  rude, 
There's  one  who,  but  to  kiss  thy  cheek, 
Would  climb  the  untrodden  solitude 

Of  Ararat's  tremendous  peak, 
And  think  its  steeps,  though  dark  and  dread, 
Heaven's  pathways,  if  to  thee  they  led  ! 
Even  now  thou  seest  the  flashing  spray, 
That  lights  his  oar's  impatient  way ; 
Even  now  thou  hear'st  the  sudden  shock 
Of  his  swift  bark  against  the  rock, 
And  stretchest  down  thine  arms  of  snow, 
As  if  to  lift  him  from  below  ! 
Like  her  to  whom  at  dead  of  night, 
The  bridegroom,  with  his  locks  of  light, 
Came,  in  the  flush  of  love  and  pride, 
And  scaled  the  terrace  of  his  bride  ; 
When,  as  she  saw  him  rashly  spring, 
And  midway  up  in  danger  cling, 
She  flung  him  down  her  long  black  hair, 
Exclaiming,  breathless,  "  There,  love,  there'." 
And  scarce  did  manlier  nerve  uphold 

The  hero  Zal  in  that  fond  hour, 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  I $9 

Than  wings  the  youth  who,  fleet  and  bold, 
Now  climbs  the  rocks  to  Hinda's  bower 

See !  light  as  up  their  granite  steeps 
The  rock-goats  of  Arabia  clamber, 

Fearless  from  crag  to  crag  he  leaps, 
And  now  is  in  the  maiden's  chamber. 


She  loves  —  but  knows  not  whom  she  loves, 

Nor  what  his  race,  nor  whence  he  came,  — 
Like  one  who  meets,  in  Indian  groves, 

Some  beauteous  bird  without  a  name, 
Brought  by  the  last  ambrosial  breeze 
From  isles  in  the  undiscover'd  seas, 
To  show  his  plumage  for  a  day 
To  wondering  eyes,  and  wing  away  ! 
Will  he  thus  fly  —  her  nameless  lover? 

Alia  forbid  !  'twas  by  a  moon 
As  fair  as  this,  while  singing  over 

Some  ditty  to  her  soft  Kanoon, 
Alone,  at  this  same  witching  hour, 

She  first  beheld  his  radiant  eyes 
Gleam  through  the  lattice  of  the  bower, 

Where  nightly  now  they  mix  their  sighs ; 
And  thought  some  spirit  of  the  air 
(For  what  could  waft  a  mortal  there?) 
Was  pausing  on  his  moonlit  way 
To  listen  to  her  lonely  lay  ! 
This  fancy  ne'er  hath  left  her  mind ; 

And  though,  when  terror's  swoon  had  past, 


I6O  LALLA    ROOKH. 

She  saw  a  youth,  of  mortal  kind, 

Before  her  in  obeisance  cast, 
Yet  often  since,  when  he  hath  spoken 
Strange  awful  words,  and  gleams  have  broker 
From  his  dark  eyes,  too  bright  to  bear, 

Oh,  she  hath  feard  her  soul  was  given 
To  some  unhallow'd  child  of  air, 

Some  erring  Spirit  cast  from  Heaven,  — 
Like  those  angelic  youths  of  old, 
Who  burn'd  for  maids  of  mortal  mould, 
Bewilder'd,  left  the  glorious  skies, 
And  lost  their  heaven  for  woman's  eyes. 

Fond  girl !  nor  fiend  nor  angel  he 
Who  woos  thy  young  simplicity ; 
But  one  of  earth's  impassioned  sons, 

As  warm  in  love,  as  fierce  in  ire, 
/Vs  the  best  heart  whose  current  runs 

Full  of  the  Day-God's  living  fire. 

But  quench 'd  to-night  that  ardor  seems, 

And  pale  his  cheek,  and  sunk  his  brow; 
Never  before,  but  in  her  dreams, 

Had  she  beheld  him  pale  as  now : 
And  those  were  dreams  of  troubled  sleep, 
From  which  'twas  joy  to  wake  and  weep, — 
Visions,  that  will  not  be  forgot, 

But  sadden  every  waking  scene. 
Like  warning  ghosts,  that  leave  the  spot 

All  wither'd  where  they  once  have  been. 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  l6l 

"  How  sweetly,"  said  the  trembling  maid, 

Of  her  own  gentle  voice  afraid, 

So  long  had  they  in  silence  stood, 

Looking  upon  that  tranquil  flood, — 

"  How  sweetly  does  the  moonbeam  smile 

To-night  upon  yon  leafy  isle ! 

Oft,  in  my  fancy's  wanderings, 

I've  wish'd  that  little  isle  had  wings, 

And  we,  within  its  fairy  bowers, 

Were  wafted  off  to  seas  unknown, 
Where  not  a  pulse  should  beat  but  ours, 

And  we  might  live,  love,  die,  alone ! 
Far  from  the  cruel  and  the  cold, 

Where  the  bright  eyes  of  angels  only 
Should  come  around  us,  to  behold 

A  paradise  so  pure  and  lonely ! 
Would  this  be  world  enough  for  thee  ?  " 
Playful  she  turn'd,  that  he  might  see 

The  passing  smile  her  cheek  put  on ; 
But  when  she  mark'd  how  mournfully 

His  eyes  met  hers,  that  smile  was  gone, 
And,  bursting  into  heartfelt  tears, 
"  Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  "  my  hourly  fears, 
My  dreams  have  boded  all  too  right  — 
We  part  —  forever  part  —  to-night ! 
I  knew,  I  knew  it  could  not  last  — 

'Twas  bright,  'twas  heavenly,  but  'tis  past ! 
Oh,  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour 

I've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay  j 
I  never  loved  a  tree  or  flower, 


162  LALLA    ROOKH. 

But  "'twas  the  first  to  fade  away ; 
I  never  nursed  a  dear  gazelle, 

To  glad  me  with  its  soft  black  eye, 
But  when  it  came  to  know  me  well, 

And  love  me,  it  was  sure  to  die  ! 
Now,  too,  the  joy  most  like  divine 

Of  all  I  ever  dreamt  or  knew,  — 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  call  thee  mine, 

Oh,  misery  !  must  I  lose  that  too? 
Yet  go  —  on  peril's  brink  we  meet : 

Those  frightful  rocks  !  that  treacherous  sea  !  — 
No,  never  come  again  !  —  though  sweet, 

Though  heaven,  it  may  be  death  to  thee 
Farewell !  and  blessings  on  thy  way, 

Where'er  thou  goest,  beloved  stranger  ! 
Better  to  sit  and  watch  that  ray, 
And  think  thee  safe,  though  far  away, 

Than  have  thee  near  me,  and  in  danger !" 

"  Danger  ! —  oh,  tempt  me  not  to  boast !  " 
The  youth  exclaim'd  —  "  Thou  little  know'st 
What  he  can  brave,  who,  born  and  nurst 
In  Danger's  paths,  has  dared  her  worst ; 
Upon  whose  ear  the  signal  word 

Of  strife  and  death  is  hourly  breaking; 
Who  sleeps  with  head  upon  the  sword 

His  fever'd  hand  must  grasp  in  waking. 
Danger ! "  — 

"  Say  on  —  thou  fear'st  not  then? 
And  we  may  meet  —  oft  meet  again  ? " 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  163 

11  Oh,  look  not  so  !  beneath  the  skies 
I  now  fear  nothing  but  those  eyes. 
If  aught  on  earth  could  charm  or  force 
My  spirit  from  its  destined  course, 
If  aught  could  make  this  soul  forget 
The  bond  to  which  its  seal  is  set,  — 
Twould  be  those  eyes  :  —  they,  only  they, 
Could  melt  that  sacred  seal  away  ! 
But  no,  'tis  fixed,  —  mine  awful  doom 
If  fix'd  —  on  this  side  of  the  tomb 
We  meet  no  more.     Why,  why  did  Heaven 
Mingle  two  souls  that  earth  has  riven, 
Has  rent  asunder  wide  as  ours  ? 

0  Arab  maid,  as  soon  the  Powers 

Of  Light  and  Darkness  may  combine, 
As  I  be  link'd  with  thee  or  thine  ! 
Thy  Father  "  — 

"Holy  Alia  save 

His  gray  head  from  that  lightning  glance! 
Thou  know'st  him  not  —  he  loves  the  brave; 

Nor  lives  there  under  heaven's  expanse 
One  who  would  prize,  would  worship  thee 
And  thy  bold  spirit,  more  than  he. 
Oft  when,  in  childhood,  I  have  played 

With  the  bright  falchion  by  his  side, 
I've  heard  him  swear  his  lisping  maid 

In  time  should  be  a  warrior's  bride. 
And  still,  whene'er  at  Haram  hours 

1  take  him  cool  sherbets  and  flowers, 


164  LALLA   ROOKH. 

He  tells  me,  when  in  playful  mood, 

A  hero  shall  my  bridegroom  be, 
Since  maids  are  best  in  battle  woo'd, 

And  won  with  shouts  of  victory ! 
Nay,  turn  not  from  me  —  thou  alone 
Art  form'd  to  make  both  hearts  thine  own. 
Go  — join  his  sacred  ranks  :  thou  know'st 

The  unholy  strife  these  Persians  wage, — 
Good    Heaven,    that    frown  !  —  even  now  thou 
glow'st 

With  more  than  mortal  warriors  rage. 
Haste  to  the  camp  by  morning's  light, 
And  when  that  sword  is  raised  in  fight, 
Oh,  still  remember,  Love  and  I 
Beneath  its  shadow  trembling  lie ! 
One  victory  o'er  those  Slaves  of  Fire, 
Those  impious  Ghebers,  whom  my  sire 
Abhors"  — 

"  Hold,  hold  !  thy  words  are  death  I w 

The  stranger  cried,  as  wild  he  flung 
His  mantle  back,  and  show'd  beneath 
The  Gheber  belt  that  round  him  clung ; 
"  Here,  maiden,  look  —  weep  —  blush  to  see 
All  that  thy  sire  abhors  in  me  ! 
Yes  —  /  am  of  that  impious  race, 

Those  Slaves  of  Fire,  who,  morn  and  even. 
Hail  their  Creator's  dwelling-place 

Among  the  living  lights  of  heaven : 
Yes  —  /  am  of  that  outcast  few, 
To  Iran  and  to  vengeance  true, 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  1 6$ 

Who  curse  the  hour  your  Arabs  came 
To  desolate  our  shrines  of  flame, 
And  swear,  before  God's  burning  eye, 
To  break  our  country's  chains,  or  die ! 
Thy  bigot  sire,  —  nay,  tremble  not,  — 

He  who  gave  birth  to  those  dear  eyes, 
With  me  is  sacred  as  the  spot 
From  which  our  fires  of  worship  rise  ! 
But  know  —  'twas  he  I  sought  that  night, 

When,  from  my  watch-boat  on  the  sea, 
I  caught  this  turret's  glimmering  light, 

And  up  the  rude  rocks  desperately 
Rush'd  to  my  prey  :  —  thou  know'st  the  rest : 
I  climb'd  the  gory  vulture's  nest, 
And  found  a  trembling  dove  within ; 
Thine,  thine  the  victory  —  thine  the  sin  — 
If  Love  hath  made  one  thought  his  own, 
That  Vengeance  claims  first  —  last  —  alone ! 
Oh,  had  we  never,  never  met, 
Or  could  this  heart  e'en  now  forget 
How  link'd,  how  bless'd  we  might  have  been, 
Had  fate  not  frown'd  so  dark  between  ! 
Hadst  thou  been  born  a  Persian  maid, 
In  neighboring  valleys  had  we  dwelt, 
Through  the  same  fields  in  childhood  play'd, 

At  the  same  kindling  altar  knelt, 
Then,  then,  while  all  those  nameless  ties, 
In  which  the  charm  of  Country  lies, 
Had  round  our  hearts  been  hourly  spun, 
Till  Iran's  cause  and  thine  were  one ; 
F 


1 66  LALLA  ROOKH. 

While  in  thy  lute's  awakening  sigh 
I  heard  the  voice  of  days  gone  by, 
And  saw,  in  every  smile  of  thine, 
Returning  hours  of  glory  shine ; 
)      «Vhile  the  wrong'd  Spirit  of  our  Land 

Lived,   look'd,  and  spoke   her  wrongs    thro' 

thee, 
God  !  who  could  then  this  sword  withstand  ? 

Its  very  flash  were  victory  ! 
But  now  —  estranged,  divorced  forever, 
Far  as  the  gasp  of  Fate  can  sever : 
Our  only  ties  what  love  has  wove,  — 

In  faith,'  friends,  country,  sunder'd  wide, — 
And  then,  then  only,  true  to  love, 

When  false  to  all  that's  dear  beside  ! 
Thy  father,  Iran's  deadliest  foe  — 
Thyself  perhaps,  even  now  —  but  no  — 
Hate  never  look'd  so  lovely  yet ! 

No  —  sacred  to  thy  soul  will  be 
The  land  of  him  who  could  forget 

All  but  that  bleeding  land  for  thee. 
When  other  eyes  shall  see,  unmoved, 

Her  widows  mourn,  her  warriors  fall, 
Thou'lt  think  how  well  one  Gheber  loved, 

And  for  his  sake  thou'lt  weep  for  all ! 
But  look  "  — 

With  sudden  start  he  turn'd 

And  pointed  to  the  distant  wave, 
Where  lights,  like  charnel  meteors,  burn'd 

Bluely,  as  o'er  some  seaman's  grave ; 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  l6/ 

And  fiery  darts,  at  intervals, 

Flew  up  all  sparkling  from  the  main, 

As  if  each  star  that  nightly  falls 
Were  shooting  back  to  heaven  again. 

"  My  signal  lights  !     I  must  away  — 

Both,  both  are  ruin'd,  if  I  stay. 

Farewell,  —  sweet  life  !  thou  cling'st  in  vain,  — 

Now,  Vengeance,  I  am  thine  again  !  " 


Fiercely  he  broke  away,  nor  stopp'd, 
Nor  look'd,  —  but  from  the  lattice  dropp'd 
Down  'mid  the  pointed  crags  beneath, 
As  if  he  fled  from  love  to  death. 
While  pale  and  mute  young  Hinda  stoodi 
Nor  moved,  till  in  the  silent  flood 
A  momentary  plunge  below 
Startled  her  from  her  trance  of  woe  ; 
Shrieking,  she  to  the  lattice  flew,  — 

"  I  come —  I  come  —  if  in  that  tide 
Thou  sleep'st  to-night,  I'll  sleep  there  too, 

In  death's  cold  wedlock,  by  thy  side. 
Oh,  I  would  ask  no  happier  bed 

Than  the  chill  wave  my  love  lies  under ; 
Sweeter  to  rest  together  dead, 

Far  sweeter,  than  to  live  asunder ! " 
But  no,  their  hour  has  not  yet  come ; 

Again  she  sees  his  pinnace  fly, 
Wafting  him  fleetly  to  his  home, 

Where'er  that  ill-starr'd  home  may  lie ; 


1 68  LALLA   ROOKH. 

And  calm  and  smooth  it  seem'd  to  win 
Its  moonlight  way  before  the  wind, 

As  if  it  bore  all  peace  within, 

Nor  left  one  breaking  heart  behind  ! 


THE  Princess,  whose  heart  was  sad  enough  al- 
ready, could  have  wished  that  Feramorz  had  chosen 
a  less  melancholy  story ;  as  it  is  only  to  the  happy 
that  tears  are  a  luxury.  Her  ladies,  however,  were 
by  no  means  sorry  that  love  was  once  more  the 
Poet's  theme ;  for  whenever  he  spoke  of  love,  they 
said,  his  voice  was  as  sweet  as  if  he  had  chewed  the 
leaves  of  that  enchanted  tree  which  grows  over  the 
tomb  of  the  musician  Tan-Sein. 

Their  road  all  the  morning  had  lain  through  a 
very  dreary  country,  —  through  valleys  covered  with 
a  low  bushy  jungle,  where,  in  more  than  one  place, 
the  awful  signal  of  the  bamboo  staff,  with  the  white 
flag  at  its  top,  reminded  the  traveller  that,  in  that 
very  spot,  the  tiger  had  made  some  human  creature 
his  victim.  It  was,  therefore,  with  much  pleasure 
that  they  arrived  at  sunset  in  a  safe  and  lovely  glen, 
and  encamped  under  one  of  those  holy  trees  whose 
smooth  columns  and  spreading  roofs  seem  to  des- 
tine them  for  natural  temples  of  religion.  Beneath 
this  spacious  shade,  some  pious  hands  had  erected 
a  row  of  pillars  ornamented  with  the  most  beautiful 
porcelain,  which  now  supplied  the  use  of  mirrors  to 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  169 

the  young  maidens,  as  they  adjusted  their  hair  in 
descending  from  the  palankeens.  Here,  while,  as 
usual,  the  Princess  sat  listening  anxiously,  with 
Fadladeen,  in  one  of  his  loftiest  moods  of  criticism, 
by  her  side,  the  young  Poet,  leaning  against  a  branch 
ef  the  tree,  thus  continued  his  story :  — 


THE  morn  hath  risen  clear  and  calm, 

And  o'er  the  Green  Sea  palely  shines, 
Revealing  Bahrein's  groves  of  palm, 

And  lighting  Kishma's  amber  vines. 
Fresh  smell  the  shores  of  Araby, 
While  breezes  from  the  Indian  sea 
Blow  round  Selama's  sainted  cape, 

And  curl  the  shining  flood  beneath, 
Whose  waves  are  rich  with  many  a  grape, 

And  cocoa-nut  and  flowery  wreath, 
Which  pious  seamen,  as  they  pass'd, 
Had  toward  that  holy  headland  cast  — 
Oblations  to  the  Genii  there, 
For  gentle  skies  and  breezes  fair  ! 
The  nightingale  now  bends  her  flight 
From  the  high  trees,  where  all  the  night 

She  sung  so  sweet,  with  none  to  listen ; 
And  hides  her  from  the  morning  star 

Where  thickets  of  pomegranate  glisten 
In  the  clear  dawn,  —  bespangled  o'er 


I/O  LALLA  ROOKH. 

With  dew,  whose  night-drops  would  not  stain 
The  best  and  brightest  scimitar 
That  ever  youthful  Sultan  wore 

On  the  first  morning  of  his  reign. 


And  see  !  the  Sun  himself !     On  wings 
Of  glory  up  the  East  he  springs. 
Angel  of  Light !  who,  from  the  time 
Those  heavens  began  their  march  sublime, 
Hath  first  of  all  the  starry  choir 
Trod  in  his  Maker's  steps  of  fire  ! 

Where  are  the  days,  thou  wondrous  sphere, 
When  Iran,  like  a  sun-flower,  turn'd 
To  meet  that  eye  where'er  it  burn'd? 

When,  from  the  banks  of  Bendemeer 
To  the  nut-groves  of  Samarcand, 
Thy  temples  flamed  o'er  all  the  land  ? 
Where  are  they?  ask  the  shades  of  them 

Who,  on  Cadessia's  bloody  plains, 
Saw  fierce  invaders  pluck  the  gem 
From  Iran's  broken  diadem, 

And  bind  her  ancient  faith  in  chains :  — . 
Ask  the  poor  exile,  cast  alone 
On  foreign  shores,  unloved,  unknown, 
Beyond  the  Caspian's  Iron  Gates, 

Or  on  the  snowy  Mossian  mountains, 
Far  from  his  beauteous  land  of  dates, 

Her  jasmine  bowers  and  sunny  fountains,-* 
Yet  happier  so  than  if  he  trod 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  I 

His  own  beloved  but  blighted  sod, 
Beneath  a  despot  stranger's  nod !  — 
Oh,  he  would  rather  houseless  roam 

Where  Freedom  and  his  God  may  lead, 
Than  be  the  sleekest  slave  at  home 

That  crouches  to  the  conqueror's  creed T 

Is  Iran's  pride  then  gone  forever, 

Quench'd  with  the  flame  in  Mithra's  caves? 
No  -  she  has  sons,  that  never,  never, 
Will  stoop  to  be  the  Moslem's  slaves, 
While  heaven  has  light  or  earth  has  graves, 
Spirits  of  fire,  that  brood  not  long, 
But  flash  resentment  back  for  wrong ; 
And  hearts  where,  slow  but  deep,  the  seeds 
Of  vengeance  ripen  into  deeds, 
Till,  in  some  treacherous  hour  of  calm, 
They  burst,  like  Zeilan's  giant  palm, 
Whose  buds  fly  open  with  a  sound 
That  shakes  the  pigmy  forests  round  J 

Yes,  Emir  !  he  who  scaled  that  tower, 

And,  had  he  reach'd  thy  slumbering  breast. 
Had  taught  thee  in  a  Gheber's  power 

How  safe  e'en  tyrant  heads  may  rest, 
Is  one  of  many,  brave  as  he, 
Who  loathe  thy  haughty  race  and  thee ; 
Who,  though  they  know  the  strife  is  vain, 
Who,  though  they  know  the  riven  chaia 


LALLA    RCOKH. 


Snaps  but  to  enter  in  the  heart 

Of  him  who  rends  its  links  apart, 

Yet  dare  the  issue,  —  blest  to  be 

E'en  for  one  bleeding  moment  free, 

And  die  in  pangs  of  liberty  ! 

Thou  know'st  them  well  —  'tis  some  moons  sinc^ 

Thy  turban'd  troops  and  blood-red  flags, 
Thou  satrap  of  a  bigot  Prince  ! 

Have  swarm  'd  among  these  Green  Sea  crags  ; 
Yet  here,  e'en  here,  a  sacred  band,  — 
Ay,  in  the  portal  of  that  land 
Thou,  Arab,  dar'st  to  call  thine  own,  — 
Their  spears  across  thy  path  have  thrown  ; 
Here,  ere  the  winds  half  wing'd  thee  o'er, 
Rebellion  braved  thee  from  the  shore. 

Rebellion  !  foul  dishonoring  word, 

Whose  wrongful  blight  so  oft  has  stain'd 
The  holiest  cause  that  tongue  or  sword 

Of  mortal  ever  lost  orgain'd!. 
How  many  a  spirit,  bora  to  bless, 

Hath  sunk  beneath  that  withering  name, 
Whom  but  a  day's,  an  hour's  success 

Had  wafted  to  eternal  fame  ! 
As  exhalations,  when  they  burst 
From  the  warm  earth,  if  chill'd  at  first, 
If  check'd  in  soaring  from  the  plain, 
Darken  to  fogs  and  sink  again  ; 
But,  if  they  once  triumphant  spread 
Their  wings  above  the  mountain-head, 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

Become  enthroned  in  upper  air, 
And  turn  to  sun-bright  glories  there ! 

And  who  is  he,  that  wields  the  might 

Of  Freedom  on  the  Green  Sea  brink, 
Before  whose  sabre's  dazzling  light 

The  eyes  of  Yemen's  warriors  wink? 
Who  comes,  embower'd  in  the  spears 
Of  Kerman's  hardy  mountaineers? 
Those  mountaineers  that  truest,  last, 

Cling  to  their  country's  ancient  rites, 
As  if  that  God,  whose  eyelids  cast 

Their  closing  gleam  on  Iran's  heights, 
Among  her  snowy  mountains  threw 
The  last  light  of  his  worship  too ! 

'Tis  Hafed  —  name  of  fear,  whose  sound 
Chills  like  the  muttering  of  a  charm  !  — 
Shout  but  that  awful  name  around, 

And  palsy  shakes  the  manliest  arm  ! 
Tis  Hafed,  most  accursed  and  dire 

(So  rank'd  by  Moslem  hate  and  ire) 
Of  all  the  rebel  Sons  of  Fire  ; 
Of  whose  malign,  tremendous  power, 
The  Arabs,  at  their  mid-watch  hour, 
Such  tales  of  fearful  wonder  tell, 
That  each  affrighted  sentinel 
Pulls  down  his  cowl  upon  his  eyes, 
Lest  Hafed  in  the  midst  should  rise! 


LALLA   ROOKH. 


A  man,  they  say,  of  monstrous  birth, 
A  mingled  race  of  flame  and  earth, 
Sprung  from  those  old  enchanted  kings, 

Who,  in  their  fairy  helms,  of  yore, 
A  feather  from  the  mystic  wings 

Of  the  Simoorgh  resistless  wore  ; 
And  gifted  by  the  Fiends  of  Fire, 
Who  groaned  to  see  their  shrines  expire, 
With  charms  that,  all  in  vain  withstood, 
Would  drown  the  Koran's  light  in  blood  ! 


Such  were  the  tales  that  won  belief, 

And  such  the  coloring  Fancy  gave 
To  a  young,  warm,  and  dauntless  Chief,— 

One  who,  no  more  than  mortal  brave, 
Fought  for  the  land  his  soul  adored, 

For  happy  homes  and  altars  free,  — 
His  only  talisman,  the  sword, 

His  only  spell-word,  Liberty  ! 
One  of  that  ancient  hero  line, 
Along  whose  glorious  current  shine 
Names  that  have  sanctified  their  blood,  — 
As  Lebanon's  small  mountain-flood 
Is  rendered  holy  by  the  ranks 
Of  sainted  cedars  on  its  banks. 
'Twas  not  for  him  to  crouch  the  knee 
Tamely  to  Moslem  tyranny ; 
'Twas  not  for  him,  whose  soul  was  cast 
In  the  bright  mould  of  ages  past. 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

Whose  melancholy  spirit,  fed 
With  all  the  glories  of  the  dead. 
Though  framed  for  Iran's  happiest  years, 
Was  born  among  her  chains  and  tears !  — 
Twas  not  for  him  to  swell  the  crowd 
Of  slavish  heads,  that  shrinking  bow'd 
Before  the  Moslem  as  he  pass'd, 
Like  shrubs  beneath  the  poison-blast !  — 
No,  far  he  fled  —  indignant  fied 

The  pageant  of  his  country's  shame, 
While  every  tear  her  children  shed 

Fell  on  his  soul  like  drops  of  flame ; 
And,  as  a  lover  hails  the  dawn 

Of  a  first  smile,  so  welcomed  he 
The  sparkle  of  the  first  sword  drawn 
For  Vengeance  and  for  Liberty  ! 


But  vain  was  valor  —  vain  the  flower 
Of  Kerman,  in  that  deathful  hour, 
Against  Al  Hassan's  whelming  power. 
In  vain  they  met  him,  helm  to  helm, 
Upon  the  threshold  of  that  realm 
He  came  in  bigot  pomp  to  sway, 
And  with  their  corpses  block'd  his  way,  — 
In  vain  —  for  every  lance  they  raised, 
Thousands  around  the  Conqueror  blazed ; 
For  every  arm  that  lined  their  shore, 
Myriads  of  slaves  were  wafted  o'er,  — 
A  bloody,  bold,  and  countless  crowd, 


1/6  LALLA    ROOKff. 

Before  whose  swarm  as  fast  they  bow'd 
As  dates  beneath  the  locust  cloud. 


There  stood  —  but  one  short  league  away 
From  old  Harmozia's  sultry  bay  — 
A  rocky  mountain,  o'er  the  Sea 
Of  Oman  beetling  awfully  : 
A  last  and  solitary  link 

Of  those  stupendous  chains  that  reach 
From  the  broad  Caspian's  reedy  brink 

Down  winding  to  the  Green  Sea  beach. 
Around  its  base  the  bare  rocks  stood, 
Like  naked  giants  in  the  flood, 

As  if  to  guard  the  Gulf  across  ; 
While,  on  its  peak,  that  brave  the  sky, 
A  ruin'd  Temple  tower'd,  so  high 

That  oft  the  sleeping  albatross 
Struck  the  wild  ruins  with  her  wing, 
And  from  her  cloud-rock'd  slumbering 
Started  — to  find  man's  dwelling  there 
In  her  own  silent  fields  of  air ! 
Beneath,  terrific  caverns  gave 
Dark  welcome  to  each  stormy  wave 
That  dash'd,  like  midnight  revellers,  in; 
And  such  the  strange  mysterious  din 
At  times  throughout  those  caverns  roll'd, 
And  such  the  fearful  wonders  told 
Of  restless  sprites  imprison'd  there, 
That  bold  were  Moslem  who  would  dare, 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

At  twilight  hour,  to  steer  his  skiff 
Beneath  the  Gheber's  lonely  cliff. 


On  the  land  side,  those  towers  sublime, 
That  seem'd  above  the  grasp  of  Time, 
Were  seyer'd  from  the  haunts  of  men 
By  a  wide,  deep,  and  wizard  glen, 
So  fathomless,  so  full  of  gloom, 

No  eye  could  pierce  the  void  between: 
It  seem'd  a  place  where  Gholes  might  come 
With  their  foul  banquets  from  the  tomb, 

And  in  its  caverns  feed  unseen. 
Like  distant  thunder,  from  below, 

The  sound  of  many  torrents  came, 
Too  deep  for  eye  or  ear  to  know 
If  'twere  the  sea's  imprison'd  flow, 

Or  floods  of  ever-restless  flame. 
For,  each  ravine,  each  rocky  spire 
Of  that  vast  mountain  stood  on  fire  ; 
And,  though  forever  past  the  days 
When  God  was  worshipp'd  in  the  blaze 
That  from  its  lofty  altar  shone,  — 
Though  fled  the  priests,  the  votaries  gone,  — 
Still  did  the  mighty  flame  burn  on, 
Through  chance  and  change,  through  good  and  ill, 
Like  its  own  God's  eternal  will, 
Deep,  constant,  bright,  unquenchable  ! 

Thither  the  vanquish'd  Hafed  led 
His  little  army's  last  remains  ; 


^8  LALLA   ROOKH. 

"  Welcome,  terrific  glen  !  "  he  said, 

"  Thy  gloom,  that  Eblis'  self  might  dread, 

Is  Heaven  to  him  who  flies  from  chains ! n 
O'er  a  dark  narrow  bridge-way,  known 
To  him  and  to  his  Chiefs  alone, 
They  cross'd  the  chasm  and  gain'd  the  towers 
"  This  home,"  he  cried,  "  at  least,  is  ours; 
Here  we  may  bleed,  unmock'd  by  hymns 

Of  Moslem  triumph  o'er  our  head  ; 
Here  we  may  fall,  nor  leave  our  limbs 

To  quiver  to  the  Moslem's  tread. 
Stretch'd  on  this  rock  while  vultures'  beaks 
Are  whetted  on  our  yet  warm  cheeks, 
Here  —  happy  that  no  tyrant's  eye 
Gloats  on  our  torments  —  we  may  die  ! " 

'Twas  night  when  to  those  towers  they  came, 

And  gloomily  the  fitful  flame, 

That  from  the  ruin'd  altar  broke, 

Glared  on  his  features,  as  he  spoke : 

"  'Tis  o'er  —  what  men  could  do,  we've  done : 

If  Iran  will  look  tamely  on, 

And  see  her  priests,  her  warriors  driven 

Before  a  sensual  bigot's  nod, 
A  wretch  who  shrines  his  lusts  in  heaven, 

And  makes  a  pander  of  his  God  ; 
If  her  proud  sons,  her  high-born  souls, 

Men  in  whose  veins  —  oh,  last  disgrace !  — 
The  blood  of  Zal  and  Rustam  rolls,  — 

If  they  will  court  this  upstart  race, 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  1 79 

• 

And  turn  from  Mithra's  ancient  ray, 
To  kneel  at  shrines  of  yesterday ; 
If  they  will  crouch  to  Iran's  foes, 

Why,  let  them  —  till  the  land's  despair 
Cries  out  to  Heaven,  and  bondage  grows 

Too  vile  for  e'en  the  vile  to  bear ! 
Till  shame  at  last,  long  hidden,  burns 
Their  inmost  core,  and  conscience  turns 
Each  coward  tear  the  slave  lets  fall 
Back  on  his  heart  in  drops  of  gall. 
But  here,  at  least,  our  arms  unchain'd, 
And  souls  that  thraldom  never  stain'd ; 

This  spot,  at  least,  no  foot  of  slave 
Or  satrap  ever  yet  profaned  ; 

And  though  but  few,  — though  fast  the  wave 
Of  life  is  ebbing  from  our  veins, 
Enough  for  vengeance  still  remains  ! 
As  panthers,  after  set  of  sun, 
Rush  from  the  roots  of  Lebanon 
Across  the  dark  sea-robber's  way, 
We'll  bound  upon  our  startled  prey; 
And  when  some  hearts  that  proudest  swell 
Have  felt  our  falchion's  last  farewell,  — 
When  Hope's  expiring  throb  is  o'er, 
And  e'en  despair  can  prompt  no  more,  — 
This  spot  shall  be  the  sacred  grave 
Of  the  last  few  who,  vainly  brave, 
Die  for  the  land  they  cannot  save ! " 

His  Chiefs  stood  round  —  each  shining  blade 
Upon  the  broken  altar  laid  ; 


180  LALLA   ROOKPI. 

And  though  so  wild  and  desolate 
Those  courts,  where  once  the  Mighty  sate, 
Nor  longer  on  those  mouldering  towers 
Was  seen  the  feast  of  fruits  and  flowers, 
With  which  of  old  the  Magi  fed 
The  wandering  Spirits  of  their  Dead  ; 
Though  neither  priest  nor  rites  were  there, 

Nor  charmed  leaf  of  pure  pomegranate  ; 
Nor  hymn,  nor  censer's  fragrant  air, 

Nor  symbol  of  their  worshipp'd  planet ; 
Yet  the  same  God  that  heard  their  sires 
Heard  them,  while  on  that  altar's  fires 
They  swore  the  latest,  holiest  deed 
Of  the  few  hearts  still  left  to  bleed 
Should  be,  in  Iran's  injured  name, 
To  die  upon  that  Mount  of  Flame  — 
The  last  of  all  her  patriot  line, 
Before  her  last  untrampled  Shrine ! 


Brave  suffering  souls  !  they  little  knew 
How  many  a  tear  their  injuries  drew 
From  one  weak  maid,  one  gentle  foe, 
Whom  love  first  touch'd  with  others1  woe,  — 
Whose  life,  as  free  from  thought  as  sin, 
Slept  like  a  lake,  till  Love  threw  in 
His  talisman,  and  woke  the  tide, 
And  spread  its  trembling  circles  wide. 
Once,  Emir !  thine  unheeding  child, 
'Mid  all  this  havoc,  bloom'd  and  smiled,  — 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  l8l 

Tranquil  as  on  some  battle  plain 

The  Persian  lily  shines  and  towers, 
Before  the  combat's  reddening  stain 

Hath  fallen  upon  her  golden  flowers. 
Light-hearted  maid,  unawed,  unmoved, 
While  Heaven  but  spared  the  sire  she  loved, 
Once  at  thine  evening  tales  of  blood 
Unlistening  and  aloof  she  stood,  — 
And  oft,  when  thou  hast  paced  along 

Thy  Haram  halls  with  furious  heat, 
Hast  thou  not  cursed  her  cheerful  song, 

That  came  across  thee,  calm  and  sweet?  — 
Like  lutes  of  angels,  touch'd  so  near 
HelPs  confines,  that  the  damn'd  can  hear! 


Far  other  feelings  Love  hath  brought,  — 

Her  soul  all  flame,  her  brow  all  sadness, 
She  now  has  but  the  one  dear  thought, 

And  thinks  that  o'er,  almost  to  madness ! 
Oft  does  her  sinking  heart  recall 
His  words  —  "  For  my  sake  weep  for  all  ; " 
And  bitterly,  as  day  on  day 

Of  rebel  carnage  fast  succeeds, 
She  weeps  a  lover  snatch'd  away 

In  every  Gheber  wretch  that  bleeds : 
There's  not  a  sabre  meets  her  eye, 

But  with  his  life-blood  seems  to  swim ; 
There's  not  an  arrow  wings  the  sky, 

But  fancy  turns  its  point  to  him. 


1 82  LALLA   ROOKH. 

No  more  she  brings  with  footstep  light 

Al  Hassan's  falchion  for  the  fight ; 

And  had  he  look'd  with  clearer  sight, 

Had  not  the  mists  that  ever  rise 

From  a  foul  spirit  dimm'd  his  eyes, 

He  would  have  mark'd  her  shuddering  frame, 

When  from  the  field  of  blood  he  came, 

The  faltering  speech  —  the  look  estranged  — 

Voice,  step,  and  life,  and  beauty  changed,  — 

He  would  have  mark'd  all  this,  and  known 

Such  change  is  wrought  by  Love  alone ! 

Ah,  not  the  Love,  that  should  have  bless'd 
So  young,  so  innocent  a  breast ; 
Not  the  pure,  open,  prosperous  Love, 
That,  pledged  on  earth  and  sealed  above, 
Grows  in  the  world's  approving  eyes, 

In  friendship's  smile  and  home's  caress, 
Collecting  all  the  heart's  sweet  ties 

Into  one  knot  of  happiness ! 
No,  Hinda,  no,  — thy  fatal  flame 
Is  nursed  in  silence,  sorrow,  shame ; 

A  passion,  without  hope  or  pleasure, 
In  thy  soul's  darkness  buried  deep, 

It  lies,  like  some  ill-gotten  treasure,  — 
Some  idol,  without  shrine  or  name, 
O'er  which  its  pale-eyed  votaries  keep 
Unholy  watch,  while  others  sleep. 

Seven  nights  have  darken'd  Oman's  sea, 
Since  last,  beneath  the  moonlight  ray, 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  183 

She  saw  his  light  oar  rapidly 

Hurry  her  Gheber's  bark  away ; 
And  still  she  goes,  at  midnight  hour, 
To  weep  alone  in  that  high  bower, 
And  watch  and  look  along  the  deep 
For  him  whose  smiles  first  made  her  weep : 
But  watching,  weeping,  all  was  vain, 
She  never  saw  his  bark  again. 
The  owlet's  solitary  cry, 
The  night-hawk  flitting  darkly  by, 

And  oft  the  hateful  carrion  bird, 
Heavily  flapping  his  clogg'd  wing, 
Which  reek'd  with  that  day's  banquetting  — 

Was  all  she  saw,  was  all  she  heard. 


'Tis  the  eighth  morn.     Al  Hassan's  brow 

Is  brightened  with  unusual  joy ; 
What  mighty  mischief  glads  him  now, 

Who  never  smiles  but  to  destroy? 
The  sparkle  upon  Herkend's  Sea, 
When  toss'd  at  midnight  furiously, 
Tells  not  of  wreck  and  ruin  nigh, 
More  surely  than  that  smiling  eye ! 
"Up,  daughter,  up!  the  Kerna's  breath 
Has  blown  a  blast  would  waken  death, 
And  yet  thou  sleep'st ;  — up,  child,  and  see 
This  blessed  day  for  Heaven  and  me, 
A  day  more  rich  in  Pagan  blood 
Than  ever  flashed  o'er  Oman's  flood ! 


1 84  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Before  another  dawn  shall  shine, 

His  head  —  heart  —  limbs  —  will  all  be  mine; 

This  very  night  his  blood  shall  steep 

These  hands  all  over  e'er  I  sleep ! "  — 

"  His  blood  ! "  she  faintly  scream'd,  her  mind 

Still  singling  one  from  all  mankind. — 

"  Yes  — spite  of  his  ravines  and  towers, 

Hafed,  my  child,  this  night  is  ours : 

Thanks  to  all-conquering  treachery, 

Without  whose  aid  the  links  accurst, 

That  bind  these  impious  slaves,  would  be 

Too  strong  for  Alla's  self  to  burst ! 

That  rebel  fiend,  whose  blade  has  spread 

My  path  with  piles  of  Moslem  dead, 

Whose  baffling  spells  had  almost  driven 

Back  from  their  course  the  Swords  of  Heaven 

This  night,  with  all  his  band,  shall  know 

How  deep  an  Arab's  steel  can  go, 

When  God  and  Vengeance  speed  the  blow. 

And  —  Prophet !  by  that  holy  wreath 

Thou  worest  on  Ohod's  field  of  death, 

I  swear,  for  every  sob  that  parts 

In  anguish  from  these  heathen  hearts, 
A  gem  from  Persia's  plunder'd  mines 
Shall  glitter  on  thy  Shrine  of  Shrines  ! 
But,  ha !  —  she  sinks  —  that  look  so  wild  — 
Those  livid  lips, —  my  child,  my  child, 
This  life  of  blood  befits  not  thee, 
And  thou  must  back  to  Araby. 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  185 

Ne'er  had  I  risk'd  thy  timid  sex 
In  scenes  that  man  himself  might  dread, 
Had  I  not  hoped  our  every  tread 

Would  be  on  prostrate  Persian  necks  — 
Curst  race,  they  offer  swords  instead ! 
But,  cheer  thee,  maid, —  the  wind  that  now 
Is  blowing  o'er  thy  feverish  brow, 
To-day  shall  waft  thee  from  the  shore ; 
And,  ere  a  drop  of  this  night's  gore 
Have  time  to  chill  in  yonder  towers, 
Thou'lt  see  thine  own  sweef  Arab  bowers ! n 

His  bloody  boast  was  all  too  true  : 
There  lurk'd  one  wretch  among  the  few 
Whom  Hafed's  eagle  eye  could  count 
Around  him  on  that  fiery  mount, — 
One  miscreant  who  for  gold  betray'd 
The  pathway  through  the  valley's  shade 
To  those  high  towers  where  Freedom  stood 
In  her  last  hold  of  flame  and  blood. 
Left  on  the  field  that  dreadful  night, 
When,  sallying  from  their  sacred  height, 
The  Ghebers  fought  hope's  farewell  fight, 
He  lay  —  but  died  not  with  the  brave  : 
That  sun,  which  should  have  gilt  his  grave, 
Saw  him  a  traitor  and  a  slave :  —  / 

And,  while  the  few,  who  thence  return'd    .' 
To  their  high  rocky  fortress,  mourn'd 
For  him  among  the  matchless  dead 
They  left  behind  on  glory's  bed, 


1 86  LALLA   ROOKH. 

He  lived,  and,  in  the  face  of  morn, 

Laugh'd  them  and  Faith  and  Heaven  to  scorn. 

Oh,  for  a  tongue  to  curse  the  slave, 

Whose  treason,  like  a  deadly  blight, 
Comes  o'er  the  councils  of  the  brave, 

And  blasts  them  in  their  hour  of  might ! 
May  Life's  unbiassed  cup  for  him 
Be  drugged  with  treacheries  to  the  brim, — 
With  hopes,  that  but  allure  to  fly, 

With  joys,  that  vanish  while  he  sips, 
Like  Dead  Sea  fruits,  that  tempt  the  eye, 

But  turn  to  ashes  on  the  lips  ! 
His  country's  curse,  his  children's  shame, 
Outcast  of  virtue,  peace,  and  fame, 
May  he,  at  last,  with  lips  of  flame 
On  the  parch'd  desert  thirsting  die, — 
While  lakes  that  shone  in  mockery  nigh 
Are  fading  off,  untouch'd,  untasted, 
Like  the  once  glorious  hopes  he  blasted ! 
And  when  from  earth  his  spirit  flies, 

Just  Prophet,  let  the  damn'd  one  dwell 
Full  in  the  sight  of  Paradise, 

Beholding  Heaven,  and  feeling  Hell ! 


LALLA  ROOKH  had,  the  night  before,  been  visited 
by  a  dream,  which,  in  spite  of  the  impending  fate 
ofpoorHafed,  made  her  heart  more  than  usually 
cheerful  during  the  morning,  and  gave  her  cheeks 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  187 

all  the  freshened  animation  of  a  flower  that  the 
Bid-musk  had  just  passed  over.  She  fancied  that 
she  was  sailing  on  that  Eastern  Ocean,  where  the 
sea-gypsies,  who  live  forever  on  the  water,  enjoy  a 
perpetual  summer  in  wandering  from  isle  to  isle, 
when  she  saw  a  small  gilded  bark  approaching  her. 
It  was  like  one  of  those  boats  which  the  Maldivian 
islanders  send  adrift  at  the  mercy  of  winds  and 
waves,  loaded  with  perfumes,  flowers,  and  odorif- 
erous wood,  as.  an  offering  to  the  Spirit  whom  they 
call  King  of  the  Sea.  At  first,  this  little  bark  ap- 
peared to  be  empty,  but,  on  coming  nearer  — 

She  had  proceeded  thus  far  in  relating  the  cJreanv 
to  her  Ladies,  when  Feramorz  appeared  at  the  door 
of  the  pavilion.  In  his  presence,  of  course,  every- 
thing else  was  forgotten,  and  the  continuance  of  the 
story  was  instantly  requested  by  all.  Fres'ii  wood 
of  aloes  was  set  to  burn  in  the  cassolets  ;  the  violet 
sherbets  were  hastily  handed  round ;  and  after  a 
short  prelude  on  his  lute,  in  the  pathetic  measure  of 
Nava,  which  is  always  used  to  express  the  lamenta- 
tions of  absent  lovers,  the  Poet  thus  continued. 


THE  day  is  lowering, —  stilly  black 
Sleeps  the  grim  wave,  while  heaven's  rack, 
Dispersed  and  wild,  'twixt  earth  and  sky 
Hangs  like  a  shatterd  canopy. 


1 88  LALLA   ROOKH. 

There's  not  a  cloud  in  that  blue  plain 

But  tells  of  storm  to  come  or  past  : 
Here,  flying  loosely  as  the  mane 

Of  a  young  war-horse  in  the  blast :    v 
There,  roll'd  in  masses  dark  and  swelling, 
As  proud  to  be  the  thunder's  dwelling  ! 
While  some  already  burst  and  riven, 
Seem  melting  down  the  verge  of  heaven,— 
As  though  the  infant  storm  had  rent 

The  mighty  womb  that  gave  him  birth, 
And  having  swept  the  firmament, 

Was  now  in  fierce  career  for  earth. 
On  earth  'twas  yet  all  calm  around, 
A  pulseless  silence,  dread,  profound, 
More  awful  than  the  tempest's  sound. 
The  diver  steer'd  for  Ormus'  bowers, 
And  moor'd  his  skiff  till  calmer  hours ; 
The  sea-birds,  with  portentous  screech, 
Flew  fast  to  land  ;  upon  the  beach, 
The  pilot  oft  had  paused,  with  glance 
Turn'd  upward  to  that  wild  expanse ; 
And  all  was  boding,  drear,  and  dark 
As  her  own  soul,  when  Hinda's  bark 
Went  slowly  from  the  Persian  shore. 


No  music  timed  her  parting  oar, 
Nor  friends  upon  the  lessening  strand 
Linger'd,  to  wave  the  unseen  hand, 
Or  speak  the  farewell,  heard  no  more ; 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  189 

But  lone,  unheeded,  from  the  bay 

The  vessel  takes  its  mournful  way, 

Like  some  ill-destined  bark  that  steers 

In  silence  through  the  Gate  of  Tears. 

And  where  was  stern  Al  Hassan  then? 

Could  not  that  saintly  scourge  of  men 

From  bloodshed  and  devotion  spare  i 

One  minute  for  a  farewell  there  ? 

No,  —  close  within,  in  changeful  fits 

Of  cursing  and  of  prayer,  he  sits 

In  savage  loneliness  to  brood 

Upon  the  coming  night  of  blood, — 

With  that  keen  second-scent  of  death, 
By  which  the  vulture  snuffs  his  food 

In  the  still  warm  and  living  breath  ! 
While  o'er  the  wave  his  weeping  daughter 
Is  wafted  from  these  scenes  of  slaughter,  — 
As  a  young  bird  of  Babylon, 
Let  loose  to  tell  of  victory  won, 
Flies  home,  with  wing,  ah  !  not  unstain'd 
By  the  red  hands  that  held  her  chain'd. 

And  does  the  long-left  home  she  seeks 
Light  up  no  gladness  on  her  cheeks? 
The  flowers  she  nursed,  —  the  well-known  groves, 
Where  oft  in  dreams  her  spirit  roves  ; 
Once  more  to  see  her  dear  gazelles 
Come  bounding  with  their  silver  bells  ; 
Her  birds'  new  plumage  to  behold, 
And  the  gay  gleaming  fishes  count, 


LALLA   ROOKH. 


She  left,  all  filleted  with  gold, 

Shooting  around  their  jasper  fount  ; 
Her  little  garden  mosque  to  see, 

And  once  again,  at  evening  hour, 
To  tell  her  ruby  rosary 

In  her  own  sweet  acacia  bower  :  — 
Can  these  delights,  that  wait  her  now, 
Call  up  no  sunshine  on  her  brow  ? 
No  ;  —  silent,  from  her  train  apart  — 
As  if  e'en  now  she  felt  at  heart 
The  chill  of  her  approaching  doom,  — 
She  sits,  all  lovely  in  her  gloom 
As  a  pale  Angel  of  the  Grave  ; 
And  o'er  the  wide  tempestuous  wave 
Looks,  with  a  shudder,  to  those  towers 
Where,  in  a  few  short  awful  hours, 
Blood,  blood,  in  streaming  tides  shall  run, 
Foul  incense  for  to-morrow's  sun  ! 
"  Where  art  thou,  glorious  stranger  !  thou, 
So  loved,  so  lost,  where  art  thou  now? 
Foe  —  Gheber  —  infidel  —  whate'er 
The  unhallow'd  name  thou'rt  doom'd  to  bear, 
Still  glorious,  —  still  to  this  fond  heart 
Dear  as  its  blood,  whate'er  thou  art  ! 
Yes,  —  Alia,  dreadful  Alia!  yes,  — 
If  there  be  wrong,  be  crime  in  this, 
Let  the  black  waves  that  round  us  roll 
Whelm  me  this  instant,  ere  my  soul, 
Forgetting  faith  —  home  —  father  —  all, 
Before  its  earthly  idol  fall, 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  IQI 

Nor  worship  e'en  Thyself  above  him  — 
For,  oh,  so  wildly  do  I  love  him, 
Thy  Paradise  itself  were  dim 
And  joyless,  if  not  shared  with  him  ! " 

Her  hands  were  clasp'd,  her  eyes  upturn'd, 

Dropping  their  tears  like  moonlight  rain ; 
And  though  her  lip,  fond  raver  !  burn'd 

With  words  of  passion,  bold,  profane, 
Yet  was  there  light  around  her  brow,  — 

A  holiness  in  those  dark  eyes, 
Which  show'd,  though  wandering  earthward  now, 

Her  spirit's  home  was  in  the  skies. 
Yes  ;  for  a  spirit  pure  as  hers 
Is  always  pure,  e'en  while  it  errs,  — 
As  sunshine,  broken  in  the  rill, 
Though  turn'd  astray,  is  sunshine  still ! 

So  wholly  had  her  mind  forgot 

All  thoughts  but  one,  she  heeded  not 

The  rising  storm  —  the  wave  that  cast 

A  moment's  midnight,  as  it  pass'd; 

Nor  heard  the  frequent  shout,  the  tread 

Of  gathering  tumult  o'er  her  head  — 

Clash'd  swords,  and  tongues  that  seem'd  to  vie 

With  the  rude  riot  of  the  sky. 

But,  hark  !  —  that  war-whoop  on  the  deck ! 

That  crash  !  as  if  each  engine  there, 
Masts,  sails,  and  all,  were  gone  to  wreck, 

'Mid  yells  and  stampings  of  despair  I 


LALLA   ROOKH. 


Merciful  Heaven  !  what  can  it  be  ? 

'Tis  not  the  storm,  though  fearfully 

The  ship  has  shudder'd  as  she  rode 

O'er  mountain-waves.  —  "  Forgive  me,  God  ! 

Forgive  me  !  "  shriek'd  the  maid,  and  knelt, 

Trembling  all  over,  —  for  she  felt 

As  if  her  judgment  hour  was  near  ; 

While  crouching  round,  half-dead  with  fear, 

Her  handmaids  clung,  nor  breathed,  nor  stirr'd- 

When,  hark  !  a  second  crash  —  a  third  — 

And  now,  as  if  a  bolt  of  thunder 

Had  riven  the  laboring  planks  asunder, 

The  deck  falls  in  —  what  horrors  then  ! 

Blood,  waves,  and  tackle,  swords,  and  men, 

Come  mix'd  together  through  the  chasm,  — 

Some  wretches  in  their  dying  spasm 

Still  fighting  on,  and  some  that  call 

"  For  God  and  Iran  !  "  as  they  fall  ! 

Whose  was  the  hand  that  turn'd  away 

The  perils  of  the  infuriate  fray, 

And  snatch'd  her  breathless  from  'beneath 

This  wilderment  of  wreck  and  death  ? 

She  knew  not,  —  for  a  faintness  came 

Chill  o'er  her,  and  her  sinking  frame 

Amid  the  ruins  of  that  hour 

Lay,  like  a  pale  and  scorched  flower, 

Beneath  the  red  volcano's  shower. 

But,  oh  !  the  sights  and  sounds  of  dread 

That  shock'd  her  ere  her  senses  fled  ! 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  193 

The  yawning  deck,  —  the  crowd  that  strove 
Upon  the  tottering  planks  above,  — 
The  sail  whose  fragments,  shivering  o'er 
The  strugglers'  heads  all  dash'd  with  gore, 
Flutter'd  like  bloody  flags,  — the  clash 
Of  sabres,  and  the  lightning's  flash 
Upon  their  blades,  high  toss'd  about 
Like  meteor  brands,  as  if  throughout 

The  elements  one  fury  ran, 
One  general  rage,  that  left  a  doubt 

Which  was  the  fiercer,  Heaven  or  Man ! 

Once  too  —  but  no,  it  could  not  be  : 

'Twas  fancy  all,  —  yet  once  she  thought 
While  yet  her  fading  eyes  could  see, 

High  on  the  ruin'd  deck  she  caught 
A  glimpse  of  that  unearthly  form, 

That  glory  of  her  soul,  —  e'en  then, 
Amid  the  whirl  of  wreck  and  storm, 

Shining  above  his  fellow-men  ; 
As,  on  some  black  and  troublous  night, 
The  Star  of  Egypt,  whose  proud  light 
Never  hath  beam'd  on  those  who  rest 
In  the  White  Islands  of  the  West, 
Burns  through  the  storm  with  looks  of  flame 
That  put  Heaven's  cloudier  eyes  to  shame. 
But  no,  'twas  but  the  minute's  dream  — 
A  fantasy,  —  and  ere  the  scream 
Had  half-way  pass'd  her  pallid  lips, 
A  death-like  swoon,  a  chill  eclipse 


194  LALLA   ROOKIf. 

Of  soul  and  sense  its  darkness  spread 
Around  her,  and  she  sunk  as  dead. 


How  calm,  how  beautiful,  comes  on 
The  stilly  hour,  when  storms  are  gone ! 
When  warring  winds  have  died  away, 
And  clouds,  beneath  the  glancing  ray, 
Melt  off,  and  leave  the  land  and  sea 
Sleeping  in  bright  tranquillity,  — 
Fresh  as  if  Day  again  were  born, 
Again  upon  the  lap  of  Morn ; 
When  the  light  blossoms,  rudely  torn 
And  scattered  at  the  whirlwind's  will, 
Hang  floating  in  the  pure  air  still, 
Filling  it  all  with  precious  balm, 
In  gratitude  for  this  sweet  calm  ; 
And  every  drop  the  thunder-showers 
Have  left  upon  the  grass  and  flowers 
Sparkles,  as  'twere  that  lightning-gem 
Whose  liquid  flame  is  born  of  them  ! 
When,  'stead  of  one  unchanging  breeze, 
There  blow  a  thousand  gentle  airs, 
And  each  a  different  perfume  bears,  — 
As  if  the  loveliest  plants  and  trees 
Had  vassal  breezes  of  their  own 
To  watch  and  wait  on  them  alone, 

And  waft  no  other  breath  than  theirs ; 
When  the  blue  waters  rise  and  fall, 
In  sleepy  sunshine  mantling  all ; 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  1 95 

And  e'en  that  swell  the  tempest  leaves 
Is  like  the  full  and  silent  heaves 
Of  lovers'  hearts,  when  newly  blest,  — 
Too  newly  to  be  quite  at  rest. 


Such  was  the  golden  hour  that  broke 
Upon  the  world,  when  Hinda  woke 
From  her  long  trance,  and  heard  around 
No  motion  but  the  water's  sound 
Rippling  against  the  vessel's  side, 
As  slow  it  mounted  o'er  the  tide.  — 
But  where  is  she  ?  —  her  eyes  are  dark, 
Are  wilder'd  still  —  is  this  the  bark, 
The  same,  that  from  Harmozia's  bay 
Bore  her  at  morn,  —  whose  bloody  way 
The  sea-dog  track'd? —  no,  strange  and  new 
Is  all  that  meets  her  wondering  view. 
Upon  a  galliot's  deck  she  lies, 

Beneath  no  rich  pavilion's  shade, 
No  plumes  to  fan  her  sleeping  eyes, 

Nor  jasmine  on  her  pillow  laid  ; 
But  the  rude  litter,  roughly  spread 
With  war-cloaks,  is  her  homely  bed, 
And  shawl  and  sash,  on  javelins  hung, 
For  awning  o'er  her  head  are  flung. 
Shuddering,  she  look'd  around  :  —  there  lay 

A  group  of  warriors  in  the  sun, 
Resting  their  limbs,  as  for  that  day 

Their  ministry  of  death  were  done ; 


196  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Some  gazing  on  the  drowsy  sea, 
Lost  in  unconscious  reverie  ; 
And  some  who  seem'd  but  ill  to  brook 
That  sluggish  calm,  with  many  a  look 
To  the  slack  sail  impatient  cast, 
As  loose  it  flagg'd  around  the  mast. 


Blest  Alia  !  who  shall  save  her  now  ? 

There's  not  in  all  that  warrior  band 
One  Arab  sword,  one  turban'd  brow, 

From  her  own  Faithful  Moslem  land. 
Their  garb :  the  leathern  belt  that  wraps 

Each  yellow  vest,  —  that  rebel  hue,  — 
The  Tartar  fleece  upon  their  caps, 

Yes,  yes  !  her  fears  are  all  too  true, 
And  Heaven  hath,  in  this  dreadful  hour, 
Abandoned  her  to  Hafed's  power,  — 
Hafed,  the  Gheber  !  — at  the  thought 

Her  very  heart's  blood  chills  within,  — 
He,  whom  her  soul  was  hourly  taught 

To  loathe,  as  some  foul  fiend  of  sin, 
Some  minister  whom  Hell  had  sent 
To  spread  its  blast,  where'er  he  went, 
And  fling,  as  o'er  our  earth  he  trod, 
His  shadow  betwixt  man  and  God  ! 
And  she  is  now  his  captive,  —  thrown 
In  his  fierce  hands,  alive,  alone ; 
His  the  infuriate  band  she  sees, 
All  infidels  —  all  enemies ! 


Copyrighted  by  S.  E.  Cassino. 


Lalla  Rookh    3 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  1 97 

What  was  the  daring  hope  that  then 
Cross'd  her  like  lightning,  as  again, 
With  boldness  that  despair  had  lent, 

She  darted  through  that  armed  crowd 
A  look  so  searching,  so  intent, 

That  e'en  the  sternest  warrior  bow'd 
Abash'd,  when  he  her  glances  caught, 
As  if  he  guess'd  whose  form  they  sought? 
But  no,  —  she  sees  him  not :  'tis  gone, 
The  vision  that  before  her  shone, 
Through  all  the  maze  of  blood  and  storm, 
Is  fled  —  'twas  but  a  phantom  form,  — 
One  of  those  passing  rainbow  dreams, 
Half  light,  half  shade,  which  Fancy's  beams 
Paint  on  the  fleeting  mists  that  roll 
In  trance  or  slumber  round  the  soul. 

But  now  the  bark,  with  livelier  bound, 

Scales  the  blue  wave  :    the  crew's  in  motion : 

The  oars  are  out,  and  with  light  sound 
Break  the  bright  mirror  of  the  ocean, 

Scattering  its  brilliant  fragments  round. 

And  now  she  sees  — with  horror  sees  — 
Their  course  is  toward  that  mountain-hold, 

Those  towers,  that  make  her  life-blood  freeze, 

Where  Mecca's  godless  enemies 

Lie,  like  beleaguer'd  scorpions,  roll'd 
In  their  last  deadly  venomous  fold  ! 

Amid  the  illumined  land  and  flood 

Sunless  that  mighty  mountain  stood ; 
G 


198  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Save  where,  above  its  awful  head, 
There  shone  a  flaming  cloud,  blood-red, 
As  'twere  the  flag  of  destiny 
Hung  out  to  mark  where  death  would  be I 

Had  her  bewilder'd  mind  the  power 
Of  thought  in  this  terrific  hour, 
She  well  might  marvel  where  or  how 
Man's  foot  could  scale  that  mountain's  brow, 
Since  ne'er  had  Arab  heard  or  known 
Of  path  but  through  the  glen  alone.  — 
But  every  thought  was  lost  in  fear, 
When,  as  their  bounding  bark  drew  near 
The  craggy  base,  she  felt  the  waves 
Hurry  them  toward  those  dismal  caves, 
That  from  the  Deep  in  windings  pass 
Beneath  that  Mount's  volcanic  mass ; 
And  loud  a  voice  on  deck  commands 
To  lower  the  masts  and  light  the  brands  ! 
Instantly  o'er  the  dashing  tide 
Within  a  cavern's  mouth  they  glide, — • 
Gloomy  as  that  eternal  Porch 

Through  which  departed  spirits  go : 
Not  e'en  the  flare  of  brand  and  torch 
Its  flickering  light  could  further  throw 
Than  the  thick  flood  that  boil'd  below. 
Silent  they  floated,  —  as  if  each 
Sat  breathless  and  too  awed  for  speech 
In  that  dark  chasm,  where  even  sound 
Seem'd  dark,  —  so  sullenly  around 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  199 

The  goblin  echoes  of  the  cave 
Mutter'd  it  o'er  the  long  black  wave, 
As  'twere  some  secret  of  the  grave  ! 

But  soft,  —  they  pause,  —  the  current  turns 
Beneath  them  from  its  onward  track ; 

Some  mighty  unseen  barrier  spurns 
The  vexed  tide,  all  foaming,  back, 

And  scarce  the  oars'  redoubled  force 

Can  stem  the  eddy's  whirling  course  ; 

When,  hark  !  —  some  desperate  foot  has  sprung 

Among  the  rocks,  —  the  chain  is  flung,  — 

The  oars  are  up,  —  the  grapple  clings, 

And  the  toss'd  bark  in  moorings  swings. 

Just  then,  a  day-beam  through  the  shade 

Broke  tremulous  ;  but  ere  the  maid 

Can  see  from  whence  the  brightness  steals, 

Upon  her  brow  she  shuddering  feels 

A  viewless  hand,  that  promptly  ties 

A  bandage  re  nd  her  burning  eyes  ; 

While  the  rude  litter  where  she  lies, 

Uplifted  by  the  warrior  throng, 

O'er  the  steep  rocks  is  borne  along. 

Blest  power  of  sunshine  !  genial  Day, 
What  balm,  what  life  is  in  thy  ray  ! 
To  feel  thee  is  such  real  bliss, 
That  had  the  world  no  joy  but  this, 
T*o  sit  in  sunshine  calm  and  sweet, 
It  were  a  world  too  exquisite 


2OO  LALLA   ROOKH. 

For  man  to  leave  it  for  the  gloom, 
The  deep,  cold  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
E'en  Hinda,  though  she  saw  not  where 

Or  whither  wound  the  perilous  road, 
Yet  knew  by  that  awakening  air 

Which  suddenly  around  her  glow'd 
That  they  had  risen  from  darkness  then, 
And  breathed  the  sunny  world  again ! 

But  soon  this  balmy  freshness  fled  ; 

For  now  the  sleepy  labyrinth  led 

Through  damp  and  gloom,  'mid  crash  of  boughs, 

And  fall  of  loosen'd  crags  that  rouse 

The  leopard  from  his  hungry  sleep,  — 

Who,  starting,  thinks  each  crag  a  prey, 
And  long  is  heard,  from  steep  to  steep, 

Chasing  them  down  their  thundering  way ! 
The  jackal's  cry,  —  the  distant  moan 
Of  the  hyaena,  fierce  and  lone,  — 
And  that  eternal  saddening  sounj 

Of  torrents  in  the  glen  beneath, 
As  'twere  the  ever-dark  Profound 

That  rolls  beneath  the  Bridge  of  Death ! 
All,  all  is  fearful,  —  e'en  to  see, 

To  gaze  on  those  terrific  things 
She  now  but  blindly  hears,  would  be 

Relief  to  her  imaginings  ; 
Since  never  yet  was  shape  so  dread, 

But  Fancy,  thus  in  darkness  thrown, 
And  by  such  sounds  of  horror  fed, 

Could  frame  more  dreadful  of  her  own. 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  2OI 

But  does  she  dream  ?  has  Fear  again 
Perplexed  the  workings  of  her  brain, 
Or  did  a  voice,  all  music,  then 
Come  from  the  gloom?  low  whispering  near  — 
"Tremble  not,  love,  thy  Gheber's  here!" 
She  does  not  dream  —  all  sense,  all  ear, 
She  drinks  the  words,  "  Thy  Gheber's  here." 
'Twas  his  own  voice,  —  she  could  not  err, — 

Throughout  the  breathing  world's  extent 
There  was  but  one  such  voice  for  her, 

So  kind,  so  soft,  so  eloquent ! 
Oh,  sooner  shall  the  rose  of  May 
Mistake  her  own  sweet  nightingale, 
And  to  some  meaner  minstrel's  lay 

Open  her  bosom's  glowing  veil, 
Than  Love  shall  ever  doubt  a  tone, 
A  breath  of  the  beloved  one  ! 

Though  blest,  'mid  all  her  ills,  to  think 

She  has  that  one  beloved  near, 
Whose  smile,  though  met  on  ruin's  brink, 

Hath  power  to  make  e'en  ruin  dear,  — 
Yet  soon  this  glearn  of  rapture,  crost 
By  fears  for  him,  is  chill'd  and  lost. 
How  shall  the  ruthless  Hafed  brook 
That  one  of  Gheber  blood  should  look, 
With  aught  but  curses  in  his  eye, 
On  her,  a  maid  of  Araby,  — 
A  Moslem  maid,  — the  child  of  him 

Whose  bloody  banner's  dire  success 


202  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Hath  left  their  altars  cold  and  dim, 
And  their  fair  land  a  wilderness  ! 

And,  worse  than  all,  that  night  of  blood 
Which  comes  so  fast  —  oh,  who  shall  stay 

The  sword,  that  once  hath  tasted  food 
Of  Persian  hearts,  or  turn  its  way? 

What  arm  shall  then  the  victim  cover, 

Or  from  her  father  shield  her  lover  ? 

"  Save  him,  my  God  !  "  she  inly  cries,  — 
"  Save  him  this  night !  and  if  thine  eyes 

Have  ever  welcomed  with  delight 
The  sinners  tears,  the  sacrifice 
Of  sinners'  hearts,  guard  him  this  night! 
And  here,  before  Thy  throne,  I  swear 
From  my  heart's  inmost  core  to  tear 

Love,  hope,  remembrance,  though  they  b» 
Link'd  with  each  quivering  life- string  there, 

And  give  it  bleeding  all  to  Thee ! 
Let  him  but  live,  —  the  burning  tear, 
The  sighs,  so  sinful,  yet  so  dear, 
Which  have  been  all  too  much  his  own, 
Shall  from  this  hour  be  Heaven's  alone : 
Youth  pass'd  in  penitence,  and  age 
In  long  and  painful  pilgrimage, 
Shall  leave  no  traces  of  the  flame 
That  wastes  me  now,  —  nor  shall  his  nama 
E'er  bless  my  lips,  but  when  I  pray 
For  his  dear  spirit,  that  away 
Casting  from  its  angelic  ray 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  20$ 

The  eclipse  of  earth,  he,  too,  may  shine 
Redeem'd,  all  glorious  and  all  Thine ! 
Think  —  think  what  victory  to  win 
One  radiant  soul  like  his  from  sin,  — 
One  wandering  star  of  virtue  back 
To  its  own  native,  heavenward  track ! 
Let  him  but  live,  and  both  are  Thine, 

Together  Thine  —  for,  blest  or  crost, 
Living  or  dead,  his  doom  is  mine, 

And,  if  he  perish,  both  are  lost !" 


THE  next  evening,  Lalla  Rookh  was  entreated  by 
her  Ladies  to  continue  the  relation  of  her  wonderful 
dream ;  but  the  fearful  interest  that  hung  round  the 
fate  of  Hinda  and  her  lover  had  completely  removed 
every  trace  of  it  from  her  mind,  —  much  to  the  dis- 
appointment of  a  fair  seer  or  two  in  her  train,  who 
prided  themselves  on  their  skill  in  interpreting 
visions,  and  who  had  already  remarked,  as  an  un- 
lucky omen,  that  the  Princess,  on  the  very  morn- 
ing after  the  dream,  had  worn  a  silk  dyed  with  the 
blossoms  of  the  sorrowful  tree,  Nilica. 

Fadladeen,  whose  indignation  had  more  than 
once  broken  out  during  the  recital  of  some  parts  of 
this  heterodox  poem,  seemed  at  length  to  have 
made  up  his  mind  to  the  infliction ;  and  took  his 
seat  this  jevening  with  all  the  patience  of  a  martyr, 
•while  the  Poet  resumed  his  profane  and  seditious 
story  as  follows  :  — 


2O4  LALLA   ROOKff. 

To  tearless  eyes  and  hearts  at  ease, 
The  leafy  shores  and  sun-bright  seas, 
That  lay  beneath  that  mountain's  height, 
Had  been  a  fair  enchanting  sight. 
'Twas  one  of  those  ambrosial  eves 
A  day  of  storm  so  often  leaves 
At  its  calm  setting, —  when  the  West 
Opens  her  golden  bowers  of  rest, 
And  a  moist  radiance  from  the  skies 
Shoots  trembling  down,  as  from  the  eyes 
Of  some  meek  penitent,  whose  last 
Bright  hours  atone  for  dark  ones  past, 
And  whose  sweet  tears,  or  wrong  forgiven, 
Shine,  as  they  fall,  with  light  from  Heaven  ! 

'Twas  stillness  all :  the  winds  that  late 

Had  rush'd  through  Kerman's  almond  groves, 
And  shaken  from  her  bowers  of  date 

That  cooling  feast  the  traveller  loves, 
Now,  lull'd  to  languor,  scarcely  curl 

The  Green  Sea  wave,  whose  waters  gleam 
Limpid,  as  if  her  mines  of  pearl 

Were  melted  all  to  form  the  stream ; 
And  her  fair  islets,  small  and  bright, 

With  their  green  shores  reflected  there, 
Look  like  those  Peri  isles  of  light 

That  hang  by  spell-work  in  the  air. 

But  vainly  did  those  glories  burst 
On  Hinda's  dazzled  eyes  when  first 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  20$ 

The  bandage  from  her  brow  was  taken, 
And,  pale  and  awed  as  those  who  waken 
In  their  dark  tombs,  when,  scowling  near, 
The  Searchers  of  the  Grave  appear,  — 
She  shuddering  turn'd  to  read  her  fate 

In  the  fierce  eyes  that  flash'd  around ; 
And  saw  those  towers  all  desolate, 

That  o'er  her  head  terrific  frown'd, 
As  if  defying  e'en  the  smile 
Of  that  soft  heaven  to  gild  their  pile. 
In  vain,  with  mingled  hope  and  fear, 
She  looks  for  him,  whose  voice  so  dear 
Had  come,  like  music,  to  her  ear :  — 
Strange,  mocking  dream  !  again  'tis  fled 
And  oh,  the  shoots,  the  pangs  of  dread 
That  through  her  inmost  bosom  run, 

When  voices  from  without  proclaim  — 
"  Hafed,  the  Chief!"  —  and  one  by  one 

The  warriors  shout  that  fearful  name ! 
He  comes  !  the  rock  resounds  his  tread!  — 
How  shall  she  dare  to  lift  her  head, 
Or  meet  those  eyes  whose  scorching  glare 
Not  Yemen's  boldest  sons  can  bear? 
In  whose  red  beam,  the  Moslem  tells, 
Such  rank  and  deadly  lustre  dwells, 
As  in  those  hellish  fires  that  light 
The  mandrake's  charnel  leaves  at  night. 
How  shall  she  bear  that  voice's  tone? 
At  whose  loud  battle-cry  alone 
Whole  squadrons  oft  in  panic  ran, 
Scatter'd  like  some  vast  caravan, 


2O6  LALLA    ROORH. 

When,  stretch'd  at  evening  round  the  well, 
They  hear  the  thirsting  tiger's  yell ! 
Breathless  she  stands,  with  eyes  cast  down. 
Shrinking  beneath  the  fiery  frown 
Which,  fancy  tells  her,  from  that  brow 
Is  flashing  o'er  her  fiercely  now ; 
And  shuddering  as  she  hears  the  tread 

Of  his  retiring  warrior  band  : 
Never  was  pause  so  full  of  dread,  — 

Till  Hafed  with  a  trembling  hand 
Took  hers,  and,  leaning  o'er  her,  said  — 
"  Hinda  "  :  —  that  word  was  all  he  spoke, 
And  'twas  enough  —  the  shriek  that  broke 

From  her  full  bosom  told  the  rest. 
Panting  with  terror,  joy,  surprise, 
The  maid  but  lifts  her  wondering  eyes, 

To  hide  them  on  her  Gheber's  breast ! 
'Tis  he,  'tis  he  !  —  the  man  of  blood, 
The  fellest  of  the  Fire-fiend's  brood, 
Hafed,  the  demon  of  the  fight, 
Whose  voice  unnerves,  whose  glances  blight,— 
Is  her  own  loved  Gheber,  mild 
And  glorious  ns  when  first  he  smiled 
In  her  lone  tower,  and  left  such  beams 
Of  his  pure  eye  to  light  her  dreams, 
That  she  believed  her  bower  had  given 
Rest  to  some  wanderer  from  Heaven. 

Moments  there  are,  and  this  was  one, 
Snatcii'd  like  a  minute's  gleam  of  sun 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS,  2O/ 

Amid  the  black  Simoom's  eclipse,  — 
Or  like  those  verdant  spots  that  bloom 

Around  the  crater's  burning  lips, 
Sweetening  the  very  edge  of  doom ! 

The  past,  — the  future,  —  all  that  Fate 

Can  bring  of  dark  or  desperate 

Around  such  hours,  but  makes  them  cast 

Intenser  radiance  while  they  last ! 


Even  he,  this  youth  —  though  dimm'd  and  gone 

Each  star  of  Hope  that  cheer'd  him  on : 

His  glories  lost,  his  cause  betray'd  ; 

Iran,  his  dear-loved  country,  made 

A  land  of  carcasses  and  slaves, 

One  dreary  waste  of  chains  and  graves  ! 

Himself  but  lingering,  dead  at  heart, 

To  see  the  last  long  struggling  breath 
Of  Liberty's  great  soul  depart, 

Then  lay  him  down  and  share  her  death :  — 
Even  he,  so  sunk  in  wretchedness, 

With  doom  still  darker  gathering  o'er  him, 
Yet,  in  this  moment's  pure  caress, 

In  the  mild  eyes  that  shown  before  him, 
Beaming  that  blest  assurance,  worth 
All  other  transports  known  on  earth,  — 
That  he  was  loved  —  well,  warmly  loved,— 
Oh  !  in  this  precious  hour  he  proved 
How  deep,  how  thorough-felt,  the  glow 

Of  rapture,  kindling  out  of  woe ; 


208  LALLA  ROOKH. 

How  exquisite  one  single  drop 

Of  bliss,  thus  sparkling  to  the  top 

Of  misery's  cup,  —  how  keenly  quaff'd, 

Though  death  must  follow  on  the  draught! 


She,  too,  while  gazing  on  those  eyes 

That  sink  into  her  soul  so  deep, 
Forgets  all  fears,  all  miseries,  — 

Or  feels  them  like  the  wretch  in  sleep, 
Whom  Fancy  cheats  into  a  smile, 
Who  dreams  of  joy,  and  sobs  the  while  ! 
The  mighty  Ruins  where  they  stood, 

Upon  the  mount's  high  rocky  verge, 
Lay  open  towards  the  ocean  flood, 

Where  lightly  o'er  the  illumined  surge 
Many  a  fair  bark  that  all  the  day 
Had  lurk'd  in  sheltering  creek  or  bay, 
Now  bounded  on,  and  gave  their  sails, 
Yet  dripping,  to  the  evening  gales,  — 
Like  eagles,  when  the  storm  is  done. 
Spreading  their  wet  wings  in  the  sun. 
The  beauteous  clouds,  though  daylight's  Star 
Had  sunk  behind  the  hills  of  Lar, 

Were  still  with  lingering  glories  bright,  — 
As  if,  to  grace  the  gorgeous  West, 

The  Spirit  of  departing  Light 
That  eve  had  left  his  sunny  vest 

Behind  him,  ere  he  wing'd  his  flight. 
Never  was  scene  so  form'd  for  love,  — 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

Beneath  them  waves  of  crystal  move 
In  silent  swell,  —  Heaven  glows  above, 
And  their  pure  hearts,  to  transport  given, 
Swell  like  the  wave,  and  glow  like  Heaven. 


But,  ah  !  too  soon  that  dream  is  past ! 

Again,  again  her  fear  returns  :  — 
Night,  dreadful  night,  is  gathering  fast, 

More  faintly  the  horizon  burns, 

And  every  rosy  tint  that  lay 
On  the  smooth  sea  hath  died  away. 
Hastily  to  the  darkening  skies 
A  glance  she  casts,  —  then  wildly  cries  : 
"  At  night,  he  said,  — and  look,  'tis  near !  — 

Fly,  fly  !  —  if  yet  thou  lov'st  me,  fly  !  — 
Soon  will  his  murderous  band  be  Iiere, 

And  I  shall  see  thee  bleed  and  die.  — 
Hush  !  heard'st  thou  not  the  tramp  of  men 
Sounding  from  yonder  fearful  glen? 
Perhaps  e'en  now  they  climb  the  wood  — 

Fly,  fly  !  —  though  still  the  West  is  bright, 
He'll  come  —  oh,  yes !  he  wants  thy  blood  !  -~ 

I  know  him  —  he'll  not  wait  for  night ! " 


In  terrors  e'en  to  agony 

She  clings  around  the  wondering  Chief: 
"  Alas,  poor  wilder'd  maid  !  to  me 

Thou  owest  this  raving  trance  of  grief: 


210  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Lost  as  I  am,  nought  ever  grew 
Beneath  my  shade  but  perish'd  too,  — 
My  doom  is  like  the  Dead  Sea  air, 
And  nothing  lives  that  enters  there ! 
Why  were  our  barks  together  driven 
Beneath  this  morning's  furious  heaven? 
Why,  when  I  saw  the  prize  that  chance 

Had  thrown  into  my  desperate  arms, 
When,  casting  but  a  single  glance 

Upon  thy  pale  and  prostrate  charms, 
I  vow'd  (though  watching  viewless  o'er 

Thy  safety  through  that  hour's  alarms) 
To  meet  the  unmanning  sight  no  more,— 
Why  have  I  broke  that  heart-wrung  vow? 
Why  weakly,  madly,  met  thee  now?  — 
Start  not,  —  that  noise  is  but  the  shock 

Of  torrents  through  yon  valley  hurl'd ; 
Dread  nothing  here,  —  upon  this  rock 

We  stand  above  the  jarring  world, 
Alike  beyond  its  hope —  its  dread  — 
In  gloomy  safety,  like  the  Dead  ! 
Or,  could  e'en  Earth  and  Hell  unite 
In  league  to  storm  this  Sacred  Height, 
Fear  nothing  thou  :  myself,  to-night, 
And  each  overlooking  star  that  dwells 
Near  God,  will  be  thy  sentinels ;  — 
And  ere  to-morrow's  dawn  shall  glow, 
Back  to  thy  sire  "  — 

"  To-morrow  !  —  no !  " 
The  maiden  scream'd  —  "thou'lt  never  see 
To-morrow's  sun!  death,  death  will  be 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.          211 

The  night  cry  through  each  reeking  tower, 
Unless  we  fly,  ay,  fly  this  hour  ! 
Thou  art  betray'd  :  some  wretch  who  knew 
That  dreadful  glen's  mysterious  clew  — 
Nay,  doubt  not,  by  yon  stars,  'tis  true !  — 
Hath  sold  thee  to  my  vengeful  sire  ; 
This  morning,  with  that  smile  so  dire 
He  wears  in  joy,  he  told  me  all, 
And  stamped  in  triumph  through  our  hall, 
As  though  thy  heart  already  beat 
Its  last  life-throb  beneath  his  feet ! 
Good  Heaven  !  how  little  dream'd  I  then 

His  victim  was  mine  own  loved  youth  !  — 
Fly  —  send  —  let  some  one  watch  the  glen,  -— 

By  all  my  hopes  of  Heaven,  '  t  is  truth  ! " 

Oh,  colder  than  the  wind  that  freezes 

Founts  that  but  now  in  sunshine  play'd, 
Is  that  congealing  pang  which  seizes 

The  trusting  bosom,  when  betray'd. 
He  felt  it  —  deeply  felt  —  and  stood, 
As  if  the  tale  had  frozen  his  blood, 

So  mazed  and  motionless  was  he,  — 
Like  one  whom  sudden  spells  enchant, 
Or  some  mute  marble  habitant 

Of  the  still  Halls  of  Ishmonie! 

But  soon  the  painful  chill  was  o'er, 
And  his  great  soul,  herself  once  more, 


212  LALLA   ROOKH. 

LooVd  from  his  brow  in  all  the  rays 
Of  her  best,  happiest,  grandest  days. 
Never  in  moment  most  elate 

Did  that  high  spirit  ioftier  rise ; 
While  bright,  serene,  determinate, 

His  looks  are  lifted  to  the  skies, 
As  if  the  signal  lights  of  Fate 

Were  shining  in  those  awful  eyes ! 
'  Tis  come,  —  his  hour  of  martyrdom 
In  Iran's  sacred  cause  is  come ; 
And,  though  his  life  hath  pass'd  away 
Like  lightning  on  a  stormy  day, 
Yet  shall  his  death-hour  leave  a  track 

Of  glory,  permanent  and  bright, 
To  which  the  brave  of  after-times, 
The  suffering  brave,  shall  long  look  back 

With  proud  regret,  —  and  by  its  light 

Watch  through  the  hours  of  Slavery's  night 
For  vengeance  on  the  Oppressor's  crimes. 
This  rock,  his  monument  aloft, 

Shall  speak  the  tale  to  many  an  age ; 
And  hither  bards  and  heroes  oft 

Shall  come  in  secret  pilgrimage, 
And  bring  their  warrior  sons,  and  tell 
The  wondering  boys  where  Hafed  fell, 
And  swear  them  on  those  lone  remains 
Of  their  lost  country's  ancient  fanes,  — 
Never,  while  breath  of  life  shall  live 
Within  them,  never  to  forgive 
The  accursed  race,  whose  ruthless  chain 


Uaua  Kookh    4 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  21$ 

Hath  left  on  Iran's  neck  a  stain 
Blood,  blood  alone  can  cleanse  again! 

Such  are  the  swelling  thoughts  that  now 
Enthrone  themselves  on  Hafed's  brow ; 
And  ne'er  did  saint  of  Issa  gaze 

On  the  red  wreath,  for  martyrs  twined, 
More  proudly  than  the  youth  surveys 

That  pile,  which  through  the  gloom  behind, 
Half  lighted  by  the  altar's  fire, 
Glimmers —  his  destined  funeral  pyre! 
Heaped  by  his  own,  his  comrades'  hands, 

Of  every  wood  of  odorous  breath, 
There,  by  the  Fire-God's  shrine  it  stands. 

Ready  to  fold  in  radiant  death 
The  few  still  left  of  those  who  swore 
To  perish  there,  when  hope  was  o'er,  — 
The  few,  to  whom  that  couch  of  flame, 
Which  rescues  them  from  bonds  and  shame, 
Is  sweet  and  welcome  as  the  bed 
For  their  own  infant  Prophet  spread, 
When  pitying  Heaven  to  roses  turn'd 
The  death-flames  that  beneath  him  burn'd! 

With  watchfulness  the  maid  attends 
His  rapid  glance,  where'er  it  bends, — 
Why  shoot  his  eyes  such  awful  beams? 
What  plans  he  now?  what  thinks  or  dreams? 
Alas  !  why  stands  he  musing  here, 
When  every  moment  teems  with  fear? 


214  LALLA  ROOKfT. 

"  Hafed,  mine  own  beloved  Lord," 
She  kneeling  cries,  "first,  last,  adored! 
If  in  that  soul  thou'st  ever  felt 

Half  what  thy  lips  impassion'd  swore, 
Here  on  my  knees,  that  never  knelt 

To  any  but  their  God  before, 
I  pray  thee,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  fly  !  — 
Now,  now !  — ere  yet  their  blades  are  nigh. 
Oh,  haste  !  —  the  bark  that  bore  me  hither 

Can  waft  us  o'er  yon  darkening  sea, 
East,  — west,  —  alas,  I  care  not  whither, 

So  thou  art  safe,  and  I  with  thee ! 
Go  where  we  will,  this  hand  in  thine, 

Those  eyes  before  me  smiling  thus, 
Through  good  and  ill,  through  storm  and  shine, 

The  world's  a  world  of  love  for  us  ! 
On  some  calm  blessed  shore  we'll  dwell, 
Where  '  tis  no  crime  to  love  too  well ; 
Where  thus  to  worship  tenderly 
An  erring  child  of  light  like  thee 
Will  not  be  sin,  —  or,  if  it  be, 
Where  we  may  weep  our  faults  away, 
Together  kneeling,  night  and  day, 
Thou,  for  my  sake,  at  Alla's  shrine, 
And  I  —  at  any  God's  for  thine  !" 

Wildly  these  passionate  words  she  spoke,  — 
Then  hung  her  head,  and  wept  for  shame ; 

Sobbing  as  if  her  heart-string  broke 
With  every  deep-heaved  sob  that  came. 


THE   FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  215 

While  he,  young,  warm,  —  oh,  wonder  not 

If,  for  a  moment,  pride  and  fame, 

His  oath,  his  cause,  that  shrine  of  flame, 
And  Iran's  self,  are  all  forgot 
For  her  whom  at  his  feet  he  sees 
Kneeling  in  speechless  agonies. 
No,  blame  him  not,  if  Hope  awhile 
Dawn'd  in  his  soul,  and  threw  her  smile 
O'er  hours  to  come,  —  o'er  days  and  nights, 
Wing'd  with  those  precious  pure  delights 
Which  she,  who  bends  all  beauteous  there, 
Was  born  to  kindle  and  to  share. 
A  tear  or  two,  which,  as  he  bow'd 

To  raise  the  suppliant,  trembling  stole, 
First  warn'd  him  of  this  dangerous  cloud 

Of  softness  passing  o'er  his  soul. 
Starting,  he  brush'd  the  drops  away, 
Unworthy  o'er  that  cheek  to  stray,  — 
Like  one  who,  on  the  morn  of  fight, 
Shakes  from  his  sword  the  dews  of  night, 
That  had  but  dimm'd,  not  stain'd,  its  light. 
Yet,  though  subdued  the  unnerving  thrill, 
Its  warmth,  its  weakness  linger'd  still, 

So  touching  in  each  look  and  tone 
That  the  fond,  fearing,  hoping  maid 
Half  counted  on  the  flight  she  pray'd, 

Half  thought  the  hero's  soul  was  grown 

As  soft,  as  yielding  as  her  own, 
And  smiled  and  bless'd  him,  while  he  said-- 
"  Yes,  if  there  be  some  happier  sphere, 
Where  fadeless  truth  like  ours  is  dear,  — 


2l6  LALLA   ROOKII. 

If  there  be  any  land  of  rest 

For  those  who  love  and  ne'er  forget,— 
Oh,  comfort  thee ;  for,  safe  and  blest, 

We'll  meet  in  that  calm  region  yet!w 


Scarce  had  she  time  to  ask  her  heart 
If  good  or  ill  these  words  impart, 
When  the  roused  youth  impatient  flew 
To  the  tower-wall  where,  high  in  view, 
A  ponderous  sea-horn  hung,  and  blew 
A  signal,  deep  and  dread  as  those 
The  storm-fiend  at  his  rising  blows. 
Full  well  his  Chieftains,  sworn  and  true 
Through  life  and  death,  that  signal  knew; 
For  'twas  the  appointed  warning-blast, 
The  alarm  to  tell  when  hope  was  past, 
And  the  tremendous  death-die  cast ! 
And  there,  upon  the  mouldering  tower, 
Hath  hung  this  sea-horn  many  an  hour. 
Ready  to  sound  o'er  land  and  sea 
That  dirge-note  of  the  brave  and  free. 
They  came  —  his  Chieftains  at  the  call 
Came  slowly  round,  and  with  them  all- 
Alas,  how  few  !  —  the  worn  remains 
Of  those  who  late  o'er  Kerman's  plains 
Went  gaily  prancing  to  the  clash 

Of  Moorish  zel  and  tymbalon, 
Catching  new  hope  from  every  flash 

Of  their  long  lances  in  the  sun, 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  21? 

And,  as  their  coursers  charged  the  wind, 
And  the  white  ox-tails  streamed  behind, 
Looking  as  if  the  steeds  they  rode 
Were  wing'd,  and  every  Chief  a  God  ! 
How  fallen,  how  alter'd  now !  how  wan 
Each  scarr'd  and  faded  visage  shone, 
As  round  the  burning  shrine  they  came! 

How  deadly  was  the  glare  it  cast, 
As  mute  they  paused  before  the  flame 

To  light  their  torches  as  they  pass'd ! 
'Twas  silence  all  —  the  youth  had  plann'd 
The  duties  of  his  soldier-band  ; 
And  each  determined  brow  declares 
His  faithful  Chieftains  well  know  theirs. 


But  minutes  speed  —  night  gems  the  skies  — 
And  oh,  how  soon,  ye  blessed  eyes 
That  look  from  heaven,  ye  may  behold 
Sights  that  will  turn  your  star-fires  cold ! 
Breathless  with  awe,  impatience,  hope, 
The  maiden  sees  the  veteran  group 
Her  litter  silently  prepare, 

And  lay  it  at  her  trembling  feet ; 
And  now  the  youth,  with  gentle  care, 

Hath  placed  her  in  the  shelter'd  seat, 
And  press'd  her  hand  —  that  lingering  press 

Of  hands,  that  for  the  last  time  sever; 
Of  hearts,  whose  pulse  of  happiness, 

When  that  hold  breaks,  is  dead  forever. 


218  LALLA  ROOKH. 

And  yet  to  her  this  sad  caress 

Gives  hope  —  so  fondly  hope  can  err ! 

'Twas  joy,  she  thought,  joy's  mute  excess  — 
Their  happy  flight's  dear  harbinger ; 

'Twas  warmth  —  assurance  —  tenderness,  — 
Twas  anything  but  leaving  her. 

"Haste,   haste!"   she  cried,   "the  clouds 

dark, 

But  still,  ere  night,  we'll  reach  the  bark; 
And  by  to-morrow's  dawn  —  oh,  bliss !  — 

With  thee  upon  the  sun-bright  deep, 
Far  off,  I'll  but  remember  this, 

As  some  dark  vanish'd  dream  of  sleep ; 
And  thou  "  —     But  ah  !  —  he  answers  not : 

Good  Heaven  !  — and  does  she  go  alone? 
She  now  has  reach'd  that  dismal  spot, 

Where,  some  hours  since,  his  voice's  tone 
Had  come  to  soothe  her  fears  and  ills, 
Sweet  as  the  angel  IsrafiTs, 
When  every  leaf  on  Eden's  tree 
Is  trembling  to  his  minstrelsy,  — 
Yet  now  —  oh,  now,  he  is  not  nigh. 

"  Hafed  !  my  Hafed  !  —  if  it  be 
Thy  will,  thy  doom  this  night  to  die, 

Let  me  but  stay  to  die  with  thee, 
And  I  will  bless  thy  loved  name, 
Till  the  last  life-breath  leave  this  frame. 
Oh,  let  our  lips,  our  cheeks,  be  laid 
But  near  each  other  while  they  fade ; 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  2l<) 

Let  us  but  mix  our  parting  breaths, 
And  I  can  die  ten  thousand  deaths ! 
You  too,  who  hurry  me  away 
So  cruelly,  one  moment  stay  — 

Oh,  stay  —  one  moment  is  not  much  — 
He  yet  may  come  —  for  htm  I  pray  — 
Hafed  !  dear  Hafed !  "—  All  the  way 

In  wild  lamentings,  that  would  touch 
A  heart  of  stone,  she  shriek'd  his  name 
To  the  dark  woods  —  no  Hafed  came  : 
No,  hapless  pair,  you've  look'd  your  last ; 

Your  hearts  should  both  have  broken  then; 
The  dream  is  o'er  —  your  doom  is  cast  — 

You'll  never  meet  on  earth  again  ! 


Alas  for  him,  who  hears  her  cries  ! 

Still  half-way  down  the  steep  he  stands, 
Watching  with  fix'd  and  feverish  eyes 

The  glimmer  of  those  burning  brands, 
That  down  the  rocks,  with  mournful  ray, 
Light  all  he  loves  on  earth  away ! 
Hopeless  as  they  who,  far  at  sea, 

By  the  cold  moon  have  just  consign'd 
The  corse  of  one,  loved  tenderly, 

To  the  bleak  flood  they  leave  behind ; 
And  on  the  deck  still  lingering  stay, 
And  long  look  back,  with  sad  delay, 
To  watch  the  moonlight  on  the  wave 
That  ripples  o'er  that  cheerless  grave. 


220  LALLA   ROOKH. 

But  see  —  be  starts  !  —  what  heard  he  then? 

That  dreadful  shout !  —  across  the  glen 

From  the  land-side  it  comes,  and  loud 

Rings  through  the  chasm ;  as  if  the  crowd 

Of  fearful  things,  that  haunt  that  dell, 

Its  Gholes  and  Dives  and  shapes  of  Hell, 

Had  all  in  one  dread  howl  broke  out,  — 

So  loud,  so  terrible  that  shout ! 

"  They     come  —  the     Moslems     come  !  "     he 

cries, 

His  proud  soul  mounting  to  his  eyes ; 
"  Now,  Spirits  of  the  Brave,  who  roam 
Enfranchised  through  yon  starry  dome, 
Rejoice  —  for  souls  of  kindred  fire 
Are  on  the  wing  to  join  your  choir  !  " 
He  said  —  and,  light  as  bridegrooms  bound 

To  their  young  loves,  reclimb'd  the  steep 
And  gain'd  the  Shrine  ;  his  Chiefs  stood  round  — 

Their  swords,  as  with  instinctive  leap, 
Together,  at  that  cry  accurst, 
Had  from  their  sheaths,  like  sunbeams,  burst. 
And  hark  !  —  again  —  again  it  rings ; 
Near  and  more  near  its  echoings 
Peal  through  the  chasm  — oh,  who  that  then 
Had  seen  those  listening  warrior-men, 
With  their  swords  grasp'd,  their  eyes  of  flame 
Turned     on     their    Chief  —  could     doubt     the 

shame, 

The  indignant  shame  with  which  they  thrill 
To  hear  those  shouts  and  yet  stand  still? 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  221 

He  read  their  thoughts  —  they  were  his  own : 

"  What !  while  our  arms  can  wield  these  blades, 
Shall  we  die  tamely?  —  die  alone, 

Without  one  victim  to  our  shades, 
One  Moslem  heart,  where,  buried  deep, 
The  sabre  from  its  toil  may  sleep? 
No  —  God  of  Iran's  burning  skies, 
Thou  scorn'st  the  inglorious  sacrifice  ! 
No  —  though  of  all  earth's  hope  bereft, 
Life,  swords,  and  vengeance  still  are  left! 
We'll  make  yon  valley's  reeking  caves 

Live  in  the  awe-struck  minds  of  men, 
Till  tyrants  shudder,  when  their  slaves 

Tell  of  the  Gheber's  bloody  glen. 
Follow,  brave  hearts  !  —  this  pile  remains 
Our  refuge  still  from  life  and  chains ; 
But  his  the  best,  the  holiest  bed, 
Who  sinks  entomb'd  in  Moslem  dead  !  " 

Down  the  precipitous  rocks  they  sprung, 
While  vigor,  more  than  human,  strung 
Each  arm  and  heart.  —  The  exulting  foe 
Still  through  the  dark  defiles  below, 
Track'd  by  his  torches'  lurid  fire, 

Wound  slow,  as  through  Golconda's  vale 
The  mighty  serpent,  in  his  ire, 

Glides  on  with  glittering,  deadly  trail. 
No  torch  the  Ghebers  need  —  so  well 
They  know  each  mystery  of  the  dell, 
So  oft  have,  in  their  wanderings, 


222  LALLA    ROOKIf. 

Crossed  the  wild  race  that  round  them  dwell, 
The  very  tigers  from  their  delves 

Look  out,  and  let  them  pass,  as  things 
Untamed  and  fearless  like  themselves ! 

There  was  a  deep  ravine,  that  lay 

Yet  darkling  in  the  Moslem's  way ; 

Fit  spot  to  make  invaders  rue 

The  many  fallen  before  the  few. 

The  torrents  from  that  morning's  sky 

Had  fill'd  the  narrow  chasm  breast  high, 

And,  on  each  side,  aloft  and  wild, 

Huge  cliffs  and  toppling  crags  were  piled,  — 

The  guards  with  which  young  Freedom  lines 

The  pathways  to  her  mountain-shrines. 

Here,  at  this  pass,  the  scanty  band 

Of  Iran's  last  avengers  stand ; 

Here  wait,  in  silence  like  the  dead, 

And  listen  for  the  Moslem's  tread 

So  anxiously,  the  carrion-bird 

Above  them  flaps  his  wing  unheard ! 

They  come  —  that  plunge  into  the  water 
Gives  signal  for  the  work  of  slaughter  ! 
Now,  Ghebers,  now  —  if  e'er  your  blades 

Had  point  or  prowess,  prove  them  now ! 
Woe  to  the  file  that  foremost  wades  ! 

They  come  —  a  falchion  greets  each  brow, 
And,  as  they  tumble,  trunk  on  trunk, 
Beneath  the  gory  waters  sunk, 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.          22$ 

Still  o'er  their  drowning  bodies  press 
New  victims  quick  and  numberless  ; 
Till  scarce  an  arm  in  Hafed's  band, 

So  fierce  their  toil,  hath  power  to  stir, 
But  listless  from  each  crimson  hand 

The  sword  hangs,  clogg'd  with  massacre. 
Never  was  horde  of  tyrants  met 
With  bloodier  welcome  —  never  yet 
To  patriot  vengeance  hath  the  sword 
More  terrible  libations  pour'd. 


All  up  the  dreary  long  ravine, 
By  the  red  murky  glimmer  seen 
Of  half-quencbrd  brands  that  o'er  the  flood 
Lie  scatter'd  round  and  burn  in  blood, 
What  ruin  glares  !  what  carnage  swims  ! 
Heads,  blazing  turbans,  quivering  limbs, 
Lost  swords  that,  dropped  from  many  a  hand, 
In  that  thick  pool  of  slaughter  stand,  — 
Wretches  who  wading,  half  on  fire 

From  the  toss'd  brands  that  round  them  fly, 
'Twixt  flood  and  flame,  in  shrieks  expire; 

And  some  who,  grasp'd  by  those  that  die, 
Sink  woundless  with  them,  smother'd  o'er 
In  their  dead  brethren's  gushing  gore ! 


But  vainly  hundreds,  thousands  bleed,  — 
Still  hundreds,  thousands  more  succeed; 


24  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Countless  as  toward  some  flame  at  night 

The  North's  dark  insects  wing  their  flight, 

And  quench  or  perish  in  its  light, 

To  this  terrific  spot  they  pour  — 

Till,  bridged  with  Moslem  bodies  o'er, 

It  bears  aloft  their  slippery  tread, 

And  o'er  the  dying  and  the  dead,  — 

Tremendous  causeway  !  —  on  they  pass. 

Then,  hapless  Ghebers,  then,  alas  ! 

What  hope  was  left  for  you  ?  —  for  you, 

Whose  yet  warm  pile  of  sacrifice 

Is  smoking  in  their  vengeful  eyes  ! 

Whose  swords  how  keen,  how  fierce  they  knewf 

And  burn  with  shame  to  find  how  few  ! 

Crush'd  down  by  that  vast  multitude, 

Some  found  their  graves  where  first  they  stood; 

While  some  with  hardier  struggle  died, 

And  still  fought  on  by  Hafed's  side, 

Who,  fronting  to  the  foe,  trod  back 

Toward  the  high  towers  his  gory  track ; 

And,  as  a  lion  swept  away 

By  sudden  swell  of  Jordan's  pride 
From  the  wild  covert  where  he  lay, 

Long  battles  with  the  overwhelming  tide, 
So  fought  he  back  with  fierce  delay, 
And  kept  both  foes  and  fate  at  bay. 

But  whither  now?  —  their  track  is  lost, 
Their  prey  escaped  —  guide,  torches  gone ; 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.          22$ 

By  torrent-beds  and  labyrinths  crost, 

The  scatter'd  crowd  rushed  blindly  on : 
"  Curse  on  those  tardy  lights  that  wind," 
They  panting  cry,  "  so  far  behind  t 
Oh,  for  a  bloodhound's  precious  scent, 
To  track  the  way  the  Gheber  went ! " 
Vain  wish  —  confusedly  along 
They  rush,  more  desp2rate  as  more  wrong: 
Till,  wilder'd  by  the  far-off  lights 
Yet  glittering  up  those  gloomy  heights, 
Their  footing,  mazed  and  lost,  they  miss, 
And  down  the  darkling  precipice 
Are  dash'd  into  the  deep  abyss  ; 
Or  midway  hang,  impaled  on  rocks, 
A  banquet,  yet  alive,  for  flocks 
Of  ravening  vultures,  —  while  the  dell 
Re-echoes  with  each  horrible  yell. 

Those  sounds  —  the  last,  to  vengeance  dear, 
That  e'er  shall  ring  in  Hafed's  ear,  — 
Now  reach'd  him,  as  aloft,  alone, 
Upon  the  steep  way  breathless  thrown, 
He  lay  beside  his  re2king  blade, 

Resign'd,  as  if  life's  task  were  o'er, 
Its  last  blood-offering  amply  paid, 

And  Iran's  self  could  claim  no  more. 
One  only  thought,  one  lingering  beam, 
Now  broke  across  his  dizzy  dream 
Of  pain  and  weariness  :  'twas  she, 

His  heart's  pure  planet,  shining  yet 


226  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Above  the  waste  of  memory, 

When  all  life's  other  lights  were  set. 
And  never  to  his  mind  before 
Her  image  such  enchantment  wore. 
It  seem'd  as  if  each  thought  that  stain'd, 

Each  fear  that  chill'd  their  loves,  was  past; 
And  not  one  cloud  of  earth  remain'd 

Between  him  and  her  radiance  cast ;  — 
As  if  to  charms,  before  so  bright, 

New  grace  from  other  worlds  was  given, 
And  his  soul  saw  her  by  the  light 

Now  breaking  o'er  itself  from  heaven ! 


A  voice  spoke  near  him  —  'twas  the  tone 

Of  a  loved  friend,  the  only  one, 

Of  all  his  warriors,  left  with  life 

From  that  short  night's  tremendous  strife. 

"  And  must  we  then,  my  Chief,  die  here? 

Foes  around  us,  and  the  Shrine  so  near  ! " 

These  words  have  roused  the  last  remains 

Of  life  within  him.     "  What !  not  yet 
Beyond  the  reach  of  Moslem  chains !  " 

The  thought  could  make  e'en  Death  forget 
His  icy  bondage  ;  with  a  bound 

He  springs,  all  bleeding,  from  the  ground, 
And  grasps  his  comrade's  arm,  now  grown 
E'en  feebler,  heavier  than  his  own, 
And  up  the  painful  pathway  leads, 
Death  gaining  on  each  step  he  treads. 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  22 J 

Speed  them,  them  God  who  heard'st  their  vow ! 
They  mount  —  they  bleed  ;  oh,  save  them  now  ! 
The  crags  are  red  they've  clamber'd  o'er, 
The  rock-weed's  dripping  with  their  gore ; 
Thy  blade  too,  Hafed,  false  at  length, 
Now  breaks  beneath  thy  tottering  strength  ! 
Haste,  haste  !  —  the  voices  of  the  Foe 
Come  near  and  nearer  from  below ; 
One  effort  more  —  thank  Heaven !  'tis  past ; 
They've  gain'd  the  topmost  steep  at  last. 
And  now  they  touch  the  temple's  walls, 

Now  Hafed  sees  the  Fire  divine,  — 
When,  lo!  —  his  weak,  worn  comrade  falls 

Dead  on  the  threshold  of  the  Shrine. 
"  Alas,  brave  soul,  too  quickly  fled  ! 

And  must  I  leave  thee  withering  here, 
The  sport  of  every  ruffian's  tread, 

The  mark  for  every  coward's  spear? 
No,  by  yon  altar's  sacred  beams  ! " 
He  cries,  and,  with  a  strength  that  seems 
Not  of  this  world,  uplifts  the  frame 
Of  the  fallen  Chief,  and  toward  the  flame 
Bears  him  along ;  —  with  death-damp  hand 

The  corpse  upon  the  pyre  he  lays, 
Then  lights  the  consecrated  brand, 

And  fires  the  pile,  whose  sudden  blaze 
Like  lightning  bursts  o'er  Oman's  Sea. 
'*  Now,  Freedom's  God !  I  come  to  Thee," 
The  youth  exclaims  ;  and  with  a  smile 
Of  triumph  vaulting  on  the  pile 


228  LALLA   ROOKH, 

In  that  last  effort,  ere  the  fires 

Have  harm'd  one  glorious  limb,  expires ! 


What  shriek  was  that  on  Oman's  tide? 

It  came  from  yonder  drifting  bark, 
That  just  hath  caught  upon  her  side 

The  death-light  —  and  again  is  dark. 
It  is  the  boat  —  ah,  why  delayed  ?  — 
That  bears  the  wretched  Moslem  maid ; 
Confided  to  the  watchful  care 

Of  a  small  veteran  band,  with  whom 
Their  generous  Chieftain  would  not  share 

The  secret  of  his  final  doom, 
But  hoped  when  Hinda,  safe  and  free, 

Was  rendered  to  her  father's  eyes, 
Their  pardon,  full  and  prompt,  would  be 

The  ransom  of  so  dear  a  prize. 
Unconscious,  thus,  of  Hafed's  fate, 
And  proud  to  guard  their  beauteous  freight, 
Scarce  had  they  clear'd  the  surfy  waves 
That  foam  around  those  frightful  caves, 
When  the  curst  war-whoops,  known  so  wells 
Came  echoing  from  the  distant  dell ; 
Sudden  each  oar,  upheld  and  still, 

Hung  dripping  o'er  the  vessel's  side, 
And,  driving  at  the  current's  will, 

They  rock'd  along  the  whispering  tide ; 
While  every  eye,  in  mute  dismay, 

Was  toward  that  fatal  mountain  turn'd, 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.          22$ 

Where  the  dim  altar's  quivering  ray 
As  yet  all  lone  and  tranquil  burn'd. 

Oh,  'tis  not,  Hinda,  in  the  power 

Of  Fancy's  most  terrific  touch 
To  paint  thy  pangs  in  that  dread  hour  — 

Thy  silent  agony  !  'twas  such 
As  those  who  feel  could  paint  too  well, 
But  none  e'er  felt  and  lived  to  tell ! 
Twas  not  alone  the  dreary  state 
Of  a  lorn  spirit  crush'd  by  fate, 
When,  though  no  more  remains  to  dread. 

The  panic  chill  will  not  depart ; 
When,  though  the  inmate  Hope  be  dead, 

Her  ghost  still  haunts  the  mouldering  heart. 
No  —  pleasures,  hopes,  affections,  gone, 
The  wretch  may  bear,  and  yet  live  on, 
Like  things  within  the  cold  rock  found 
Alive,  when  all's  congeal'd  around. 
But  there's  a  blank  repose  in  this, 
A  calm  stagnation,  that  were  bliss 
To  the  keen,  burning,  harrowing  pain, 
Now  felt  through  all  thy  breast  and  brain ;  — 
That  spasm  of  terror,  mute,  intense, 
That  breathless,  agonized  suspense, 
From  whose  hot  throb,  whose  deadly  aching, 
The  heart  hath  no  relief  but  breaking  ! 

Calm  is  the  wave  —  heaven's  brilliant  lights 
Reflected  dance  beneath  the  prow ; 
H 


230  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Time  was  when,  on  such  lovely  nights, 

She  who  is  there,  so  desolate  now, 
Could  sit  all  cheerful,  though  alone, 

And  ask  no  happier  joy  than  seeing 
That  starlight  o'er  the  waters  thrown  — 
No  joy  but  that,  to  make  her  blest, 

And  the  fresh,  buoyant  sense  of  being, 
Which  bounds  in  youth's  yet  careless  breast,  — 
Itself  a  star,  not  borrowing  light, 
But  in  its  own  glad  essence  bright. 
How  different  now  !  —  But  hark  !  again 
The  yell  of  havoc  rings  !  —  brave  men, 
In  vain,  with  beating  hearts,  ye  stand 
On  the  bark's  edge  —  in  vain  each  hand 
Half  draws  the  falchion  from  its  sheath  ; 

All's  o'er  —  in  rust  your  blades  may  Her 
He,  at  whose  word  they've  scatter'd  death, 

E'en  now,  this  night,  himself  must  die ! 
Well  may  ye  look  to  yon  dim  tower, 

And  ask,  and  wandering  guess,  what  mean* 
The  battle-cry  at  this  dead  hour ! 

Ah,  she  could  tell  you  —  she  who  leans 
Unheeded  there,  pale,  sunk,  aghast, 
With  brow  against  the  dew-cold  mast ; 

Too  well  she  knows  —  her  more  than  life, 
Her  soul's  first  idol  and  its  last, 

Lies  bleeding  in  that  murderous  strife. 

But  see !  what  moves  upon  the  height? 
Some  signal !  —  'tis  a  torch's  light : 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 


What  bodes  its  solitary  glare  ? 
In  grasping  silence  toward  the  Shrine 
All  eyes  are  turn'd  —  thine,  Hinda,  thine 

Fix  their  last  fading  life-beams  there. 
1Twas  but  a  moment  :  fierce  and  high 
The  death-pile  blazed  into  the  sky, 
And  far  away,  o'er  rock  and  flood, 

Its  melancholy  radiance  sent  ; 
While  Hafed,  like  a  vision,  stood 
Reveal'd  before  the  burning  pyre, 
Tall,  shadowy,  like  a  Spirit  of  Fire 

Shrined  in  its  own  grand  e-lement  ! 
"  'Tis  he  !  "  the  shuddering  maid  exclaims,  —  ' 

But,  while  she  speaks,  he's  seen  no  more; 
High  burst  in  air  the  funeral  flames, 

And  Iran's  hopes  and  hers  are  o'er  ! 
One  wild  heart-broken  shriek  she  gave,  — 

Then  sprung,  as  if  to  reach  that  blaze, 

Where  still  she  fix'd  her  dying  gaze, 
And,  gazing,  sunk  into  the  wave,  — 
Deep,  deep,  —  where  never  care  or  pain 
Shall  reach  her  innocent  heart  again  ! 


Farewell  —  farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter! 

(Thus  warbled  a  Peri  beneath  the  dark  sea), 
No  pearl  ever  lay,  under  Oman's  green  water, 

More  pure  in  its  shell  than  thy  spirit  in  thee. 


232  LALLA 

Oh,  fair  as  the  sea-flower  close  to  thee  growing, 
How  light  was  thy  heart  till  Love's  witchery  came, 

Uke  the  wind   of  the  south  o'er   a  summer  lute 

blowing, 
And  hush'd  all  its  music,  and  wither'd  its  frame ! 

But  long,  upon  Araby's  green  sunny  highlands, 
Shall  maids  and  their  lovers  remember  the  doom 

Of  her  who  lies  sleeping  among  the  Pearl  Islands, 
With  nought  but  the  sea-star  to  light  up  her  tomb. 

And  still,  when  the  merry  date-season  is  burning, 
And  calls  to  the  palm-groves  the  young  and  the 
old, 

The  happiest  there,  from  their  pastime  returning 
At  sunset,  will  weep  when  thy  story  is  told. 

The  young  village-maid,  when  with  flowers   she 
dresses 

Her  dark  flowing  hair  for  some  festival  day, 
Will  think  of  thy  fate,  till,  neglecting  her  tresses, 

She  mournfully  turns  from  the  mirror  away. 

Nor  shall  Iran,  beloved  of  her  Hero,  forget  thee, 
Though  tyrants  watch  over  her  tears  as  they  start ; 

Close,  close  by  the  side  of  that  Hero  she'll  set  thee, 
Embalm'd  in  the  innermost  shrine  of  her  heart.* 

Farewell  —  be  it  ours  to  embellish  thy  pillow 
With  everything  beauteous  that  grows  in  the  deep , 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  233 

Each  flower  of  the  rock  and  each  gem  of  the  billow 
Shall  sweeten  thy  bed  and  illumine  thy  sleep. 

Around  thee  shall  glisten  the  loveliest  amber 
That  ever  the  sorrowing  sea-bird  has  wept ; 

With    many  a  shell,   in    whose   hollow-wreathed 

chamber, 
We,  Peris  of  Ocean,  by  moonlight  have  slept. 

We'll  dive  where  the  gardens  of  coral  lie  darkling, 
And  plant  all  the  rosiest  stems  at  thy  head ; 

We'll   seek  where   the  sands  of  the   Caspian  are 

sparkling, 
And  gather  their  gold  to  strew  over  thy  bed. 

Farewell  —  farewell !  until  Pity's  sweet  fountain 
Is  lost  in  the  hearts  of  the  fair  and  the  brave, 
They'll  weep  for  the  Chieftain  who  died  on  that 

mountain, 

They'll  weep  for  the  Maiden  who  sleeps  in  this 
wave. 


THE  singular  placidity  with  which  Fadladeen  had 
listened,  during  the  latter  part  of  this  obnoxious 
story,  surprised  the  Princess  and  Feramorz  exceed- 
ingly ;  and  even  inclined  towards  him  the  hearts  of 


234  LALLA   ROOKH. 

these  unsuspicious  young  persons,  who  little  knew 
the  source  of  a  complacency  so  marvellous.  The 
*  truth  was,  he  had  been  organizing,  for  the  last  few 
days,  a  most  notable  plan  of  persecution  against  the 
Poet,  in  consequence  of  some  passages  that  had 
fallen  from  him  on  the  second  evening  of  recital, 
—  which  appeared  to  this  worthy  Chamberlain  to 
contain  language  and  principles  for  which  nothing 
short  of  the  summary  criticism  of  the  Chabuk  would 
6e  advisable.  It  was  his  intention,  therefore,  imme- 
diately on  their  arrival  at  Cashmere,  to  give  informa- 
tion to  the  King  of  Bucharia  of  the  very  dangerous 
sentiments  of  his  minstrel ;  and  if,  unfortunately, 
that  monarch  did  not  act  with  suitable  vigor  on  the 
occasion  (that  is,  if  he  did  not  give  the  Chabuk  to 
Feramorz,  and  a  place  to  Fadladeen),  there  would 
be  an  end,  he  feared,  of  all  legitimate  government 
in  Bucharia.  He  could  not  help,  however,  auguring 
better  both  for  himself  and  the  cause  of  potentates 
in  general ;  and  it  was  the  pleasure  arising  from 
these  mingled  anticipations  that  diffused  such 
unusual  satisfaction  through  his  features,  and 
made  his  eyes  shine,  out,  like  poppies  of  the  des- 
ert, over  the  wide  and  lifeless  wilderness  of  that 
countenance. 

Having  decided  upon  the  Poet's  chastisement  in 
this  manner,  he  thought  it  but  humanity  to  spare 
him  the  minor  tortures  of  criticism.  Accordingly, 
when  they  assembled  the  following  evening  in  the 
pavilion,  and  Lalla  Rookh  was  expecting  to  see  all 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  235 

,  «  beauties  -of  her  bard  melt  away,  one  by  one,  in 
the  acidity  of  criticism,  like  pearls  in  the  cup  cf  the 
Egyptian  queen,  —  he  agreeably  disappointed  her, 
by  merely  saying  with  an  ironical  smile,  that  the 
merits  of  such  a  poem  deserved  to  be  tried  at  a 
much  higher  tribunal ;  and  then  suddenly  passed  off 
into  a  panegyric  upon  all  Mussulman  sovereigns, 
more  particularly  his  august  and  Imperial  master, 
Aurungzebe,  —  the  wisest  and  best  of  the  descend* 
ants  of  Timur,  —  who,  among  other  great  things  h? 
had  done  for  mankind,  had  given  to  him,  Fadladeen. 
the  very  profitable  posts  of  Betel-carrier  and  Taster 
of  Sherbets  to  the  Emperor,  Chief  Holder  of  the 
Girdle  of  Beautiful  Forms,  and  Grand  Nazir.  or 
Chamberlain  of  the  Haram. 

They  were  now  not  far  from  that  Forbidden  River, 
beyond  which  no  pure  Hindoo  can  pass  ;  and  were 
reposing  for  a  time  in  the  rich  valley  of  Hussun 
Abdual,  which  had  always  been  a  favorite  resting- 
place  of  the  Emperors  in  their  annual  migrations  to 
Cashmere.  Here  often  had  the  Light  of  the  Faith, 
Jehan-Guire,  been  known  to  wander  with  his  be- 
loved and  beautiful  Nourmahal ;  and  here  would 
Lalla  Rookh  have  been  happy  to  remain  forever, 
giving  up  the  throne  of  Bucharia  and  the  world  for 
Feramorz  and  love  in  this  sweet,  lonely  valley.  But 
the  time  was  now  fast  approaching  when  she  must 
see  him  no  longer,  —  or,  what  was  still  worse,  behold 
him  with  eyes  whose  every  look  belonged  to  another; 
and  there  was  a  melancholy  preciousness  in  these 


236  LALLA   ROOKH. 

last  moments,  which  made  her  heart  cling  to  them 
as  it  would  to  life.  During  the  latter  part  of  the 
journey,  indeed,  she  had  sunk  into  a  deep  sadness, 
from  which  nothing  but  the  presence  of  the  youn^ 
minstrel  could  awake  her.  Like  those  lamps  ir, 
tombs,  which  only  light  up  when  the  air  is  admitted, 
it  was  only  at  his  approach  that  her  eyes  became 
smiling  and  animated.  But  here,  in  this  dear  val- 
ley, every  moment  appeared  an  age  of  pleasure : 
she  saw  him  all  day,  and  was,  therefore,  all  day 
happy,  —  resembling,  she  often  thought,  that  people 
of  Zinge,  who  attribute  the  unfading  cheerfulness 
they  enjoy  to  one  genial  star  that  rises  nightly  over 
their  heads. 

The  whole  party,  indeed,  seemed  in  their  liveliest 
mood  during  the  few  days  they  passed  in  this  de- 
lightful solitude.  The  young  attendants  of  the 
Princess,  who  were  here  allowed  a  much  freer  range 
than  they  could  safely  be  indulged  with  in  a  less 
sequestered  place,  ran  wild  among  the  gardens  and 
bounded  through  the  meadows,  lightly  as  young 
roes  over  the  aromatic  plains  of  Tibet.  While  Fad- 
ladeen,  in  addition  to  the  spiritual  comfort  derived 
by  him  from  a  pilgrimage  to  the  tomb  of  the  Saint 
from  whom  the  valley  is  named,  had  also  opportu- 
nities of  indulging,  in  a  small  way,  his  taste  for 
victims,  by  putting  to  death  some  hundreds  of  those 
unfortunate  little  lizards  which  all  pious  Mussulmans 
make  it  a  point  to  kill ;  —  taking  for  granted,  that 
the  manner  in  which  the  creature  hangs  its  head  is 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  237 

meant  as  a  mimicry  of  the  attitude  in  which  the 
Faithful  say  their  prayers. 

About  two  miles  from  Hussun  Abdaul  were  those 
Royal  Gardens  which  had  grown  beautiful  under 
the  care  of  so  many  lovely  eyes,  and  were  beautiful 
still,  though  those  eyes  could  see  them  no  longer. 
This  place,  with  its  flowers  and  its  holy  silence,  in- 
terrupted only  by  the  dipping  of  the  wings  of  birds 
in  its  marble  basins  filled  with  the  pure  water  of 
those  hills,  was  to  Lalla  Rookh  all  that  her  heart 
could  fancy  of  fragrance,  coolness,  and  almost  heav- 
enly tranquillity.  As  the  Prophet  said  of  Damascus, 
"  It  was  too  delicious  ;  "  and  here,  in  listening  to  the 
sweet  voice  of  Feramorz,  or  reading  in  his  eyes 
what  yet  he  never  dared  to  tell  her,  the  most  ex- 
quisite moments  of  her  whole  life  were  passed.  One 
evening,  when  they  had  been  talking  of  the  Sultana 
Nourmahal,  the  Light  of  the  Haram,  who  had  so 
often  wandered  among  these  flowers,  and  fed  with 
her  own  hands,  in  those  marble  basins,  the  small 
shining  fishes  of  which  she  was  so  fond,  —  the  youth, 
in  order  to  delay  the  moment  of  separation,  pro- 
posed to  recite  a  short  story,  or  rather  rhapsody, 
of  which  this  adored  Sultana  was  the  heroine.  It 
related,  he  said,  to  the  reconcilement  of  a  sort  of 
lovers'  quarrel  which  took  place  between  her  and 
the  Emperor  during  a  Feast  of  Roses  at  Cashmere ; 
and  would  remind  the  Princess  of  that  difference 
between  Haroun-al-Raschid  and  his  fair  mistress 
Marida  which  was  so  happily  made  up  by  the  soft 


238  LALLA   ROOKH. 

strains  of  the  musician  Moussali.  As  the  story  was 
chiefly  to  be  told  in  song,  and  Feramorz  had  un- 
luckily forgotten  his  own  lute  in  the  valley,  he  bor- 
rowed the  vina  of  Lalla  Rookh's  little  Persian  slave, 
and  thus  began  :  — 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE 


WHO  has  not  heard  of  the  vale  of  Cashmere, 
With  its  roses  the  brightest  that  earth  ever  gave, 

Its  temples,  and  grottos,  and  fountains  as  clear 
As  the  love-lighted  eyes  that  hung  over  their  wave? 

Oh,  to  see  it  at  sunset,  —  when  warm  o'er  the  Lake 

Its  splendor  at  parting  a  summer  eve  throws, 
Like  a  bride,  full  of  blushes,  when  lingering  to  take 

A  last  look  of  her  mirror  at  night  ere  she  goes !  — 
When  the  shrines  through  the  foliage  are  gleaming 

half  shown, 

And  each  hallows  the  hour  by  some  rites  of  its  own. 
Here  the  music  of  prayer  from  a  minaret  swells, 

Here    the    Magian  his   urn,  full  of  perfume,  is 

swinging, 
And  here,  at  the  altar,  a  zone  of  sweet  bells 

Round  the  waist  of  some  fair  Indian  dancer  is 

ringing. 

Or  to  see  it  by  moonlight,  —  when  mellowly  shines 
The  light  o'er  its  palaces,  gardens,  and  shrines ; 
When  the  water-falls  gleam,  like  a  quick  fall  of  stars, 
And  the  nightingale's  hymn  from  the  Isle  of  Chenars 

239 


240  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Is  broken  by  laughs  and  light  echoes  of  feet 
From  the  cool  shining  walks  where  the  young  people 

meet. 

Or  at  morn,  —  when  the  magic  of  daylight  awakes 
A  new  wonder  each  minute,  as  slowly  it  breaks, 
Hills,  cupolas,  fountains,  call'd  forth  every  one 
Out  of  darkness,  as  if  but  just  born  of  the  Sun ; 
When  the  Spirit  of  Fragrance  is  up  with  the  day, 
From  his  Haram  of  night-flowers  stealing  away ; 
And  the  wind,  full  of  wantonness,  woos  like  a  lover 
The  young  aspen-trees,  till  they  tremble  all  over; 
When  the  East  is  as  warm  as  the  light  of  first  hopes, 

And  Day,  with  his  banner  of  radiance  unfurl'd, 
Shines  in  through  the  mountainous  portal  that  opes, 

Sublime,  from  that  Valley  of  Bliss  to  the  world! 


But  never  yet,  by  night  or  day, 
In  dew  of  spring  or  summer's  ray, 
Did  the  sweet  Valley  shine  so  gay 
As  now  it  shines  —  all  love  and  light, 
Visions  by  day  and  feasts  by  night ! 
A  happier  smile  illumes  each  brow, 

With  quicker  spread  each  heart  uncloses, 
And  all  is  ecstasy  —  for  now 

The  Valley  holds  its  Feast  of  Roses ; 
The  joyous  time,  when  pleasures  pour 
Profusely  round,  and  in  their  shower 
Hearts  open,  like  the  Season's  Rose, — 

The  Floweret  of  a  hundred  leaves, 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM. 

Expanding  while  the  dew-fall  flows, 
And  every  leaf  its  balm  receives. 


Twas  when  the  hour  of  evening  came 

Upon  the  Lake,  serene  and  cool, 
When  Day  had  hid  his  sultry  flame 
Behind  the  palms  of  Baramoule, 
When  maids  began  to  lift  their  heads, 
Refreshed  from  their  embroider'd  beds 
Where  they  had  slept  the  sun  away, 
And  waked  to  moonlight  and  to  play,    j 
All  were  abroad  —  the  busiest  hive 
On  Bela's  hills  is  less  alive, 
When  saffron-beds  are  full  in  flower, 
Than  look'd  the  Valley  in  that  hour. 
A  thousand  restless  torches  play'd 
Through  every  grove  and  island  shade ; 
A  thousand  sparkling  lamps  were  set 
On  every  dome  and  minaret ; 
And  fields  and  pathways,  far  and  near, 
Were  lighted  by  a  blaze  so  clear 
That  you  could  see,  in  wandering  round, 
The  smallest  rose-leaf  on  the  ground. 
Yet  did  the  maids  and  matrons  leave 
Their  veils  at  home,  that  brilliant  eve  ; 
And  there  were  glancing  eyes  about, 
And  cheeks,  that  would  not  dare  shine  out 
In  open  day,  but  thought  they  might 
Look  lovely  then,  because  'twas  night. 


242  LALLA   ROOKH. 

And  all  were  free,  and  wandering, 

And  all  exclaim'd  to  all  they  met, 
That  never  did  the  summer  bring 

So  gay  a  Feast  of  Roses  yet ;  — 
The  moon  had  never  shed  a  light 

So  clear  as  that  which  bless'd  them  there ; 
The  roses  ne'er  shone  half  so  bright, 

Nor  they  themselves  look'd  half  so  fair 

And  what  a  wilderness  of  flowers  ! 
If  seem'd  as  though  from  all  the  bowers 
And  fairest  fields  of  all  the  year, 
The  mingled  spoil  were  scatter'd  here. 
The  Lake,  too,  like  a  garden  breathes, 

With  the  rich  buds  that  o'er  it  lie,  — 
As  if  a  shower  of  fairy  wreaths 

Had  fallen  upon  it  from  the  sky  ! 
And  then  the  sounds  of  joy,  —the  beat 
Of  tabers  and  and  of  dancing  feet ;  — 
The  minaret-crier's  chant  of  glee 
Sung  from  his  lighted  gallery, 
And  answer'd  by  a  ziraleet 
From  neighboring  Haram,  wild  and  sweet; 
The  merry  laughter,  echoing 
From  gardens,  where  the  silken  swing 
Wafts  some  delighted  girl  above 
The  top  leaves  of  the  orange  grove ; 
Or,  from  those  infant  groups  at  play 
Among  the  tents  that  line  the  way, 
Flinging,  unawed  by  slave  or  mother, 
Handfuls  of  roses  at  each  other. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM.       243 

Then,  the  sounds  from  the  Lake,  the  low  whisper- 
ing in  boats, 

As  they  shoot  through  the  moonlight ;  the  dip- 
ping of  oars, 

And  the  wild  airy  warbling  that  everywhere  floats, 
Through  the  groves,  round  the  islands,  —  as  if 

all  the  shores, 

Like  those  of  Kathay,  utter'd  music,  and  gave 
An  answer  in  song  to  the  kiss  of  each  wave. 
But  the  gentlest  of  all  are  those  sounds,  full  of 

feeling, 

That  soft  from  the  lute  of  some  lover  are  stealing,  — 
Some  lover  who  knows  al-1  the  heart-touching  power 
Of  a  lute  and  a  sigh  in  this  magical  hour. 
Oh,  best  of  delights  as  it  everywhere  is 
To  be  near  the  loved  One,  — what  a  rapture  is  his 
Who  in  moonlight  and  music  thus  sweetly  may  glide 
O'er  the  Lake  of  Cashmere,  with  that  One  by  his  side ! 
If  women  can  make  the  worst  wilderness  dear, 
Think,  think  what  a  Heaven   she  must  make  of 
Cashmere ! 

So  felt  the  magnificent  Son  of  Acbar, 
When  from  power  and  pomp  and  the  trophies  of  war 
He  flew  to  that  Valley,  forgetting  them  all 
With  the  Light  of  the  Haram,  his  young  Nourmahal. 
When  free  and  uncrown'd  as  the  Conqueror  roved 
By  the  banks  of  that  Lake,  with  his  only  beloved, 
He  saw,  in  the  wreaths  she  would  playfully  snatch 
From  the  hedges,  a  glory  his  crown  could  not  match, 


244  LALLA   ROOKIf. 

And  preferrM  in  his  heart  the  least  ringlet  that  curl'd 
Down  her  exquisite  neck  to  the  throne  of  the  world. 
There's  a  beauty,  forever  unchangingly  bright, 
Like  the  long  sunny  lapse  of  a  summer-day's  light, 
Shining  on,  shining  on,  by  no  shadow  made  tender, 
Till  Love  falls  asleep  in  its  sameness  of  splendor. 
This  was  not  the  beauty  —  oh,  nothing  like  this,— 
That  to  young  Nourmahal  gave  such  magic  of  bliss  ! 
But  that  loveliness,  ever  in  motion,  which  plays 
Like  the  light  upon  autumn's  soft  shadowy  days, 
Now  here  and  now  there,  giving  warmth  as  it  flies 
From  the  lip  to  the  cheek,  from  the  cheek  to  the  eyes ; 
Now  melting  in  mist  and  now  breaking  in  gleams, 
Like  the  glimpses  a  saint  hath  of  Heaven  in  his 

dreams. 

When  pensive,  it  seem'd  as  if  that  very  grace, 
That  charm  of  all  others,  was  born  with  her  face  ! 
And  when  angry,  —  for  e'en  in  the  tranquillest  climes 
Light  breezes  will  ruffle  the  blossoms  sometimesn,  — 
The  short,  passing  anger  but  seem'd  to  awaken 
New  beauty,  like  flowers  that  are  sweetest  when 

shaken. 

If  tenderness  touch'd  her,  the  dark  of  her  eye 
At  once  took  a  darker,  a  heavenlier  dye, 
From  the  depth  of  whose  shadow,  like  holy  revealings 
From  innermost  shrines,  came  the  light  of  her  feel- 
ings. 
Then  her  mirth  —  oh,  Hwas  sportive  as  ever  took 

wing 

From  the  heart  with  a  burst,  like  the  wild-bird  in 
spring ; 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM.        245 

Illumed  by  a  wit  that  would  fascinate  sages, 
Yet  playful  as  Peris  just  loosed  from  their  cages. 

While  her  laugh,  full  of  life,  without  any  control 
But  the  sweet  one  of  gracefulness,  rung  from  her 

soul ; 

And  where  it  most  sparkled  no  glance  could  discover, 
In  lip,  cheek,  or  eyes,  for  she  brighten'd  all  over,  — 
Like  any  fair  lake  that  the  breeze  is  upon, 
When  it  breaks  into  dimples  and  laughs  in  the  sun. 
Such,  such  were  the  peerless  enchantments  that  gave 
Nourmahal  the  proud  Lord  of  the  East  for  her 

slave : 

And  tho'  bright  was  his  Haram  —  a  living  parterre 
Of  the  flowers  of  this  planet,  —  though  treasures 

were  there 
For  which  Soliman's  self  might  have  given  all  the 

store 

That  the  navy  from  Ophir  e'er  wing'd  to  his  shore, 
Yet  dim  before  her  were  the  smiles  of  them  all, 
And  the  Light  of  his  Haram  was  young  Nourmahal ! 

But  where  is  she  now,  this  night  of  joy, 
When  bliss  is  every  heart's  employ?  — 

When  all  around  her  is  so  bright, 
So  like  the  visions  of  a  trance, 
That  one  might  think,  who  came  by  chance 

Into  the  Vale  this  happy  night, 

He  saw  that  City  of  Delight 
In  Fairy-land  whose  streets  and  towers 
Are  made  of  gems  and  light  and  flowers  !  — 


246  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Where  is  the  loved  Sultana?  where, 
When  mirth  brings  out  the  young  and  fair, 
Does  she,  the  fairest,  hide  her  brow, 
In  melancholy  stillness  now? 


Alas !  —  how  light  a  cause  may  move 

Dissension  between  hearts  that  love  ! 

Hearts  that  the  world  in  vain  had  tried, 

And  sorrow  but  more  closely  tied ; 

That  stood  the  storm  when  waves  were  rough, 

Yet  in  a  sunny  hour  fall  off,  — 

Like  ships  that  have  gone  down  at  sea, 

When  heaven  was  all  tranquillity  ! 

A  something,  light  as  air  —  a  look, 

A  word  unkind  or  wrongly  taken,  — 
Oh,  love,  that  tempests  never  shook, 

A  breath,  a  touch  like  this  hath  shaken. 
And  ruder  words  will  soon  rush  in 
To  spread  the  breach  that  words  begin ; 
And  eyes  forget  the  gentle  ray 
They  wore  in  courtship's  smiling  day ; 
And  voices  lose  the  tone  that  shed 
A  tenderness  round  all  they  said ; 
Till  fast  declining,  one  by  one, 
The  sweetnesses  of  love  are  gone, 
And  hearts,  so  lately  mingled,  seem 
Like  broken  clouds,  —  or  like  the  stream, 
That  smiling  left  the  mountain's  brow 

As  though  its  waters  ne'er  could  sever, 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM.       247 

Yet,  ere  it  reach  the  plain  below, 
Breaks  into  floods,  that  part  forever. 

Oh,  you  that  have  the  charge  of  Love, 

Keep  him  in  rosy  bondage  bound, 
As  in  the  Fields  of  Bliss  above 

He  sits,  with  flowerets  fetter'd  round; 
Loose  not  a  tie  that  round  him  clings, 
Nor  ever  let  him  use  his  wings  ; 
For  e'en  an  hour,  a  minute's  flight 
Will  rob  the  plumes  of  half  their  light : 
Like  that  celestial  bird, — whose  nest 

Is  found  beneath  far  Eastern  skies, — 
Whose  wings,  though  radiant  when  at  rest, 

Lose  all  their  glory  when  he  flies ! 

Some  difference,  of  this  dangerous  kind, 
By  which,  though  light,  the  links  that  bi^d 
The  fondest  hearts  may  soon  be  riven,  — 
Some  shadow  in  Love's  summer  heaven, 
Which,  though  a  fleecy  speck  at  first, 
May  yet  in  awful  thunder  burst,  — 
Such  cloud  it  is  that  now  hangs  over 
The  heart  of  the  Imperial  Lover, 
And  far  hath  banish'd  from  his  sight 
His  Nourmahal,  his  Haram's  Light ! 
Hence  is  it,  on  this  happy  night, 
When  Pleasure  through  the  fields  and  groves 
Has  let  loose  all  her  world  of  loves, 


248  LALLA   ROOKH. 

And  every  heart  has  found  its  own, 
He  wanders,  joyless  and  alone, 
And  weary  as  that  bird  of  Thrace 
Whose  pinion  knows  no  resting-place. 
In  vain  the  loveliest  cheeks  and  eyes 
This  Eden  of  the  Earth  supplies 

Come  crowding  round  :  the  cheeks  are  pale, 
The  eyes  are  dim  :  — though  rich  the  spot 
With  every  flower  this  earth  has  got, 

What  is  it  to  the  nightingale, 
If  there  his  darling  rose  is  not  ? 
In  vain  the  Valley's  smiling  throng 
Worship  him,  as  he  moves  along; 
He  heeds  them  not  —  one  smile  of  hers 
Is  worth  a  world  of  worshippers. 
They  but  the  Star's  adorers  are, 
She  is  the  Heaven  that  lights  the  Star ! 


Hence  is  it,  too,  that  Nourmahal, 
Amid  the  luxuries  of  this  hour, 
Far  from  the  joyous  festival, 

Sits  in  her  own  sequesterd  bower, 
With  no  one  near,  to  soothe  or  aid, 
But  that  inspired  and  wondrous  maid, 
Namouna,  the  Enchantress,  —  one 
O'er  whom  his  race  the  golden  sun 
For  unremember'd  years  has  run, 
Yet  never  saw  her  blooming  brow 
Younger  or  fairer  than  'tis  now. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM.        249 

Nay,  rather,  —  as  the  west  wind's  sigh 
Freshens  the  flower  it  passes  by,  — 
Time's  wing  but  seem'd,  in  stealing  o'er, 
To  leave  her  lovelier  than  before. 
Yet  on  her  smiles  a  sadness  hung, 
And  when,  as  oft,  she  spoke  or  sung 
Of  other  worlds,  there  came  a  light 
From  her  dark  eyes  so  strangely  bright 
That  all  believed  nor  man  nor  earth 
Were  conscious  of  Namouna's  birth  ! 
All  spells  and  talismans  she  knew, 

From  the  great  Mantra,  which  around 
The  Air's  sublimer  Spirits  drew, 

To  the  gold  gems  of  Afric,  bound 
Upon  the  wandering  Arab's  arm, 
To  keep  him  from  the  Siltim's  harm. 
And  she  had  pledged  her  powerful  art,  — 
Pledged  it  with  all  the  zeal  and  heart 
Of  one  who  knew,  though  high  her  sphere, 
What  'twas  to  lose  a  love  so  dear,  — 
To  find  some  spell  that  should  recall 
Her  Salim's  smile  to  Nourmahal ! 


'Twas  midnight ;  through  the  lattice,  wreathed 
With  woodbine,  many  a  perfume  breathed 
From  plants  that  wake  when  others  sleep,  — 
From  timid  jasmine  buds,  that  keep 
Their  odor  to  themselves  all  day, 
But  when  the  sunlight  dies  away 


$O  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Let  the  delicious  secret  out 
To  every  breeze  that  roams  about,  — 
When  thus  Namouna:  "  'Tis  the  hour 
That  scatters  spells  on  herb  and  flower, 
And  garlands  might  be  gathered  now, 
That,  twined  around  the  sleeper's  brow, 
Would  make  him  dream  of  such  delights, 
Such  miracles  and  dazzling  sights, 
As  Genii  of  the  Sun  behold, 
At  evening,  from  their  tents  of  gold, 
Upon  the  horizon  —  where  they  play 
Till  twilight  comes,  and,  ray  by  ray, 
Their  sunny  mansions  melt  away. 
Now,  too,  a  chaplet  might  be  wreathed 
Of  buds  o'er  which  the  moon  has  breathed, 
Which,  worn  by  her  whose  love  has  stray'd 

Might  bring  some  Peri  from  the  skies, 
Some  sprite,  whose  very  soul  is  made 

Of  flowerets1  breaths  and  lovers'  sighs, 
And  who  might  tell  "  — 

•'  For  me,  for  me," 
Cried  Nourmahal  impatiently,  — 
"  Oh,  twine  that  wreath  for  me  to-night!" 
Then,  rapidly,  with  foot  as  light 
As  the  young  musk-roe's,  out  she  flew, 
To  cull  each  shining  leaf  that  grew 
Beneath  the  moonlight's  hallowing  beams, 
For  this  enchanted  Wreath  of  Dreams. 
Anemones  and  Seas  of  Gold, 

And  new-blown  lilies  of  the  river, 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HA  RAM. 

And  those  sweet  flowerets  that  unfold 

Their  buds  on  Camadeva's  quiver ; 
The  tuberose,  with  her  silvery  light, 

That  in  the  Gardens  of  Malay 
Is  call'd  the  Mistress  of  the  Night,  — 
So  like  a  bride,  scented  and  bright, 

She  oomes  out  when  the  sun's  away ; 
Amaranths,  such  as  crown  the  maids 
That  wander  through  Zamara's  shades ; 
And  the  white  moon-flower,  as  it  shows, 
On  Serendib's  high  crags,  to  those 
Who  near  the  isle  at  evening  sail, 
Scenting  her  clove-trees  in  the  gale ; 
In  short,  all  flowerets  and  all  plants, — 

From  the  divine  Amrita  tree, 
That  blesses  heaven's  inhabitants 

With  fruits  of  immortality, 
Down  to  the  basil  tuft,  that  waves 
Its  fragrant  blossom  over  graves, 

And  to  the  humble  rosemary, 
Whose  sweets  so  thanklessly  are  shed 
To  scent  the  desert  and  the  dead  ;  — 
All  in  that  garden  bloom,  and  all 
Are  gather'd  by  young  Nourmahal, 
Who  heaps  her  baskets  with  the  flowers 

And  leaves,  till  they  can  hold  no  more ; 
Then  to  Namouna  flies,  and  showers 

Upon  her  lap  the  shining  store. 

With  what  delight  the  Enchantress  views 
So  many  buds,  bathed  with  the  dews 


252  LALLA   ROOKH. 

And  beams  of  that  bless'd  hour !  —  her  glance 
Spoke  something,  past  all  mortal  pleasures, 
As,  in  a  kind  of  holy  trance, 

She  hung  above  those  fragrant  treasures, 
Bending  to  drink  their  balmy  airs, 
As  if  she  mix'd  her  soul  with  theirs. 
And  'twas,  indeed,  the  perfume  shed 
From  flowers  and  scented  flame,  that  fed 
Her  charmed  life  —  for  none  had  e'er 
Beheld  her  taste  of  mortal  fare, 
Nor  ever  in  aught  earthly  dip, 
But  the  morn's  dew,  her  roseate  lip. 
Fill'd  with  the  cool  inspiring  smell, 
The  Enchantress  now  begins  her  spell, 
Thus  singing  as  she  winds  and  weaves 
In  mystic  form  the  glittering  leaves  :  — 

"  I  know  where  the  wing'd  visions  dwell 

That  round  the  night-bed  play ; 
I  know  each  herd  and  floweret's  bell, 
Where  they  hide  their  wings  by  day. 
Then  hasten  we,  maid, 
To  twine  our  braid  ; 
To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade. 

"  The  image  of  love,  that  nightly  flies 

To  visit  the  bashful  maid, 
Steals  from  the  jasmine  flower,  that  sighs 

Its  soul,  like  her,  in  the  shade. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM. 


The  dream  of  a  future  happier  hour, 

That  alights  on  misery's  brow, 
Springs  out  of  the  silvery  almond-flower, 
That  blooms  on  a  leafless  bough. 
Then  hasten  we,  maid, 
To  twine  our  braid  ; 
To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade. 

*'  The  visions,  that  oft  to  worldly  eyes 

The  glitter  of  mines  unfold, 
Inhabit  the  mountain-herb  that  dyes 

The  tooth  of  the  fawn  like  gold. 
The  phantom  shapes  —  oh,  touch  not  them  I  >— 

That  appal  the  murderers  sight, 
Lurk  in  the  fleshly  mandrake's  stem, 

That  shrieks,  when  pluckM  at  night! 
Then  hasten  we,  maid, 
To  twine  our  braid  ; 
To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade." 

"  The  dream  of  the  injured,  patient  mind, 

That  smiles  at  the  wrongs  of  men, 
Is  found  in  the  bruised  and  wounded  rind 
Of  the  cinnamon,  sweetest  then. 
Then  hasten  we,  maid, 
To  twine  our  braid  ; 
To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade." 

No  sooner  was  the  flowery  crown 

Placed  on  her  head,  than  sleep  came  down, 


254  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Gently  as  nights  of  summer  fall, 
Upon  the  lids  of  Nourmahal ; 
And,  suddenly,  a  tuneful  breeze,— 
As  full  of  small,  rich  harmonies 
As  ever  wind  that  o'er  the  tents 
Of  Azab  blew  was  full  of  scents, — 
Steals  on  her  ear,  and  floats  and  swells, 

Like  the  first  air  of  morning  creeping 
Into  those  wreathy,  Red-Sea  shells, 

Where  Love  himself,  of  old,  lay  sleeping ; 
And  now  a  Spirit,  form'd,  'twould  seem, 

Of  music  and  of  light,  —  so  fair, 
So  brilliantly  his  features  beam, 

And  such  a  sound  is  in  the  air 
Of  sweetness  when  he  waves  his  wings, — 
Hovers  around  her  and  thus  sings  : — 

"  From  Chindara's  warbling  fount  I  come, 
Caird  by  that  moonlight  garland  spell ; 
From  Chindara's  fount,  my  fairy  home, 

Where  in  music,  morn  and  night,  I  dwell : 
Where  lutes  in  the  air  are  heard  about, 

And  voices  are  singing,  the  whole  day  long, 
And  every  sigh  the  heart  breathes  out 
Is  turn'd,  as  it  leaves  the  lips,  to  song ! 
Hither  I  come 
From  my  fairy  home  ; 
And  if  there's  a  magic  in  Music's  strain, 
I  swear  by  the  breath 
Of  that  moonlight  wreath, 
Thy  Lover  shall  sigh  at  thy  feet  again. 


THE  LIGHT  OF   THE  HARAM.        2$$ 

"For  mine  is  the  lay  that  lightly  floats, 

And  mine  are  the  murmuring,  dying  notes, 

That  fall  as  soft  as  snow  on  the  sea, 

And  melt  in  the  heart  as  instantly ; 

And  the  passionate  strain  that,  deeply  going, 

Refines  the  bosom  it  trembles  through, 
As  the  musk-wind,  over  the  water  blowing, 

Ruffles  the  wave,  but  sweetens  it  too. 

"  Mine  is  the  charm  whose  mystic  sway 
The  Spirits  of  past  Delight  obey ; 
Let  but  the  tuneful  talisman  sound, 
And  they  come,  like  Genii,  hovering  round. 
And  mine  is  the  gentle  song  that  bears 

From  soul  to  soul,  the  wishes  of  love, 
As  a  bird  that  wafts  through  genial  airs 

The  cinnamon-seed  from  grove  to  grove. 

"  'Tis  I  that  mingle  in  one  sweet  measure 
The  past,  the  present,  and  future  of  pleasure ; 
When  Memory  links  the  tone  that  is  gone 

With  the  blissful  tone  thafs  still  in  the  ear ; 
And  Hope  from  a  heavenly  note  flies  on 

To  a  note  more  heavenly  still  that  is  near. 

"  The  warrior's  heart,  when  touched  by  me, 
Can  as  downy  soft  and  as  yielding  be 
As  his  own  white  plume,  that  high  amid  death 
Thro'  the  field  hast  shone  — yet  moves  with  a 
breath ! 


LALLA   ROOKH. 

And  oh,  how  the  eyes  of  Beauty  glisten, 

When  Music  has  reach'd  her  inward  soul, 
Like  the  silent  stars,  that  wink  and  listen 
While  Heaven's  eternal  melodies  roll. 

So,  hither  I  come 

From  my  fairy  home ; 
And  if  there's  a  magic  in  Music's  strain, 

I  swear  by  the  breath 

Of  that  moonlight  wreath, 
Thy  Lover  shall  sigh  at  thy  feet  again." 


Tis  dawn  —  at  least  that  earlier  dawn, 
Whose  glimpses  are  again  withdrawn, 
As  if  the  morn  had  waked,  and  then 
Shut  close  her  lids  of  light  again. 
And  Nourmahal  is  up  and  trying 

The  wonders  of  her  lute,  whose  strings  — 
Oh,  bliss  !  —  now  murmur  like  the  sighing 

From  that  ambrosial  Spirit's  wings. 
And  then,  her  voice  —  'tis  more  than  human; 

Never,  till  now,  had  it  been  given 
To  lips  of  any  mortal  woman 

To  utter  notes  so  fresh  from  heaven ; 
Sweet  as  the  breath  of  angel  sighs, 

When  angel  sighs  are  most  divine.  — 
"  Oh,  let  it  last  till  night,"  she  cries, 

"  And  he  is  more  than  ever  mine  !  " 
And  hourly  she  renews  the  lay, 

So  fearful  lest  its  heavenly  sweetness 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM. 

Should,  ere  the  evening,  fade  away,  — 

For  things  so  heavenly  have  such  fleetness  ! 

But,  far  from  fading,  it  but  grows 

Richer,  diviner,  as  it  flows  ; 

Till  rapt  she  dwells  on  every  string, 
And  pours  again  each  sound  along, 

Like  echo,  lost  and  languishing, 

In  love  with  her  own  wondrous  song. 


That  evening  (trusting  that  his  soul 

Might  be  from  haunting  love  released 
By  mirth,  by  music,  and  the  bowl), 

The  Imperial  Selim  held  a  feast 
In  his  magnificent  Shalimar  : 
In  whose  Saloons,  when  the  first  star 
Of  evening  o'er  the  waters  trembled, 
The  valley's  loveliest  all  assembled  ; 
All  the  bright  creatures  that,  like  dreams, 
Glide  through  its  foliage,  and  drink  beams 
Of  beauty  from  its  founts  and  streams  ; 
And  all  those  wandering  minstrel-maids, 
Who  leave  —  how  can  they  leave?  —  the  shades 
Of  that  dear  Valley,  and  are  found 

Singing  in  Gardens  of  the  South 
Those  songs,  that  ne'er  so  sweetly  sound 

As  from  a  young  Cashmerian's  mouth. 
There,  too,  the  Haram's  inmates  smile  : 

Maids  from  the  West,  with  sun-bright  hair, 
And  from  the  Garden  of  the  Nile, 

Delicate  as  the  roses  there  ; 


258  JLALLA   ROOKH. 

Daughters  of  Love  from  Cyprus1  rocks, 
With  Paphian  diamonds  in  their  locks ; 
Light  Peri  forms,  such  as  there  are 
On  the  gold  meads  of  Candahar ; 
And  they,  before  whose  sleepy  eyes 

In  their  own  bright  Kathaian  bowers, 
Sparkle  such  rainbow  butterflies, 

That  they  might  fancy  the  rich  flowers 
That  round  them  in  the  sun  lay  sighing 
Had  been  by  magic  all  set  flying. 


Everything  young,  everything  fair, 

From  East  and  West  is  blushing  there, 

Except  —  except  —  O  Nourmahal ! 

Thou  loveliest,  dearest  of  them  all, 

The  one  whose  smile  shone  out  alone, 

Amidst  a  world  the  only  one ; 

Whose  light,  among  so  many  lights, 

Was  like  that  star  on  starry  nights 

The  seaman  singles  from  the  sky 

To  steer  his  bark  forever  by  ! 

Thou  wert  not  there  —  so  Selim  thought, — 

And  everything  seem'd  drear  without  thee ; 
But  ah  !  thou  wert,  thou  wert,  —  and  brought 

Thy  charm  of  song  all  fresh  about  thee. 
Mingling  unnoticed  with  a  band 
Of  lutanists  from  many  a  land, 
And  veil'd  by  such  a  mask  as  shades  ' 

The  features  of  young  Arab  maids  — 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HA  RAM. 

A  mask  that  leaves  but  one  eye  free, 

To  do  its  best  in  witchery,  — 

She  roved,  with  beating  heart,  around, 

And  waited,  trembling,  for  the  minute 
When  she  might  try  if  still  the  sound 

Of  her  loved  lute  had  made  in  it. 


The  board  was  spread  with  fruits  and  wine : 
With  grapes  of  gold,  like  those  that  shine 
On  Casbin's  hills  ;  pomegranates  full 

Of  melting  sweetness,  and  the  pears 
And  sunniest  apples  that  Caubul 

In  all  its  thousand  gardens  bears ; 
Plantains,  the  golden  and  the  green, 
Malaya's  nectar'd  mangusteen ; 
Prunes  of  Bokara,  and  sweet  nuts 

From  the  far  groves  of  Samarcand, 
And  Basra  dates,  and  apricots, 

Seed  of  the  Sun,  from  Iran's  land; 
With  rich  conserve  of  Visna  cherries, 
Of  orange  flowers,  and  of  those  berries 
That,  wild  and  fresh,  the  young  gazelles 
Feed  on  in  Erac>  rocky  dells  ;  — 
All  these  in  richest  vases  smile, 

In  baskets  of  pure  santal-wood, 
And  urns  of  porcelain  from  that  isle     * 

Sunk  underneath  the  Indian  flood, 
Whence  oft  the  lucky  diver  brings 
Vases  to  srace  the  halls  of  kings. 


260  LALLA   RGOKH. 

Wines,  too,  of  every  clime  and  hue, 
Around  their  liquid  lustre  threw : 
Amber  Rosolli,  —  the  bright  dew 
From  vineyards  of  the  Green-Sea  gushing; 
And  Shiraz  wine,  that  richly  ran 

As  if  that  jewel,  large  and  rare, 
The  ruby  for  which  Kublai-Khan 
Offered  a  city's  wealth,  were  blushing 

Melted  within  the  goblets  there  ! 

And  amply  Selim  quaffs  of  each, 

And  seems  resolved  the  flood  shall  reach 

His  inward  heart,  shedding  around 

A  genial  deluge,  as  they  run, 
That  soon  shall  leave  no  spot  undrown'd, 

For  Love  to  rest  his  wings  upon. 
He  little  knew  how  well  the  boy 

Can  float  upon  a  goblet's  streams, 
Lighting  them  with  his  smile  of  joy ;  — 

As  bards  have  seen  them  in  their  dreams, 
Down  the  blue  Ganges  laughing  glide 

Upon  a  rosy  lotus  wreath, 
Catching  new  lustre  from  the  tide 

That  with  his  image  shone  beneath. 

But  what  are  cups,  without  the  aid 
Of  song  to  speed  them  as  they  flow? 

And  see  —  a  lovely  Georgian  maid, 
With  all  the  bloom,  the  freshened  glow 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM.       26 1 

Of  her  own  country  maidens'  looks, 
When  warm  they  rise  from  Teflis1  brooks ; 
And  with  an  eye  whose  restless  ray, 

Full,  floating,  dark  —  oh,  he  who  knows 
His  heart  is  weak,  of  Heaven  should  pray 

To  guard  him  from  such  eyes  as  those  !  — 
With  a  voluptuous  wildness  flings 
Her  snowy  hand  across  the  strings 
Of  a  syrinda,  and  thus  sings  :  — 

"Come  hither,  come  hither!  by  night  and  by  daj> 
We  linger  in  pleasures  that  never  are  gone ; 

Like  the  waves  of  the  summer,  as  one  dies  away, 
Another  as  sweet  and  as  shining  comes  on. 

And  the  love  that  is  o'er,  in  expiring,  gives  birth 
To  a  new  one  as  warm,  as  unequaird  in  bliss  ; 
And  oh,  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this  ! 

"  Here  maidens  are  sighing,  and  fragrant  their  sigh 

As  the  flower  of  the  Amra  just  oped  by  a  bee  ; 
And  precious  their  tears  as  that  rain  from  the  sky, 

Which  turns  into  pearls  as  it  falls  in  the  sea. 
Oh,   think   what  the  kiss   and  the  smile  must  be 

worth 
When  the  sigh  and  the  tear  are  so  perfect  in 

bliss ; 

And  own,  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this ! 

I 


262  LALLA   ROOKH. 

"  Here  sparkles  the  nectar,  that,  hallow'd  by  love, 
Could  draw  down  those  angels  of  old  from  their 

sphere, 

Who  for  wine  of  this  earth  left  the  fountains  above, 
And  forgot  heaven's  stars  for  the  eyes  we  have 

here. 

And,  bless'd  with  the  odor  our  goblet  gives  forth, 
What  Spirit  the  sweets  of  his  Eden  would  miss? 
For  oh,  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this!" 


The  Georgian's  song  was  scarcely  mute, 

When  the  same  measure,  sound  for  sound, 
Was  caught  up  by  another  lute, 

And  so  divinely  breathed  around, 
That  all  stood  hush'd  and  wondering, 

And  turn'd  and  look'd  into  the  air, 
As  if  they  thought  to  see  the  wing 

Of  Israfil  the  Angel  there ; 


So  powerfully  on  every  soul 
That  new,  enchanted  measure  stole. 
While  now  a  voice,  sweet  as  the  note 
Of  the  charm'd  lute,  was  heard  to  float 
Along  its  chords,  and  so  entwine 

Its  sounds  with  theirs,  but  none  knew  whet&er 
The  voice  or  lute  was  most  divine, 

So  wondrously  they  went  together : 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM.        26$ 

"  There's  a  bliss  beyond  all  that  the  minstrel  has 

told, 

When  two,  that  are  link'd  in  one  heavenly  tie, 
With  heart  never  changing,  and  brow  never  cold, 

Love  on  through  all  ills,  and  love  on  till  they  die! 
One  hour  of  a  passion  so  sacred  is  worth 

Whole  ages  of  heartless  and  wandering  bliss  ; 
And  oh,  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this ! " 

'Twas  not  the  air,  'twas  not  the  words, 
But  that  deep  magic  in  the  chords 
And  in  the  lips,  that  gave  such  power 
As  Music  knew  not  till  that  hour. 
At  once  a  hundred  voices  said, 
"  It  is  the  mask'd  Arabian  maid!" 
While  Selim,  who  had  felt  the  strain 
Deepest  of  any,  and  had  lain 
Some  minutes  rapt  as  in  a  trance, 

After  the  fairy  sounds  were  o'er, 
Too  inly  touch'd  for  utterance, 

Now  motion'd  with  his  hand  for  morei 

"  Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me  ! 
Our  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee ; 
But  oh,  the  choice  what  heart  can  doubt, 
Of  tents  with  love,  or  thrones  without? 

"  Our  rocks  are  rough,  but  smiling  there 
The  acacia  waves  her  yellow  hair, 


264  LALLA   ROOKH. 

Lonely  and  sweet,  nor  loved  the  less 
For  flowering  in  a  wilderness. 

"  Our  sands  are  bare,  but  down  their  slope 
The  silvery-footed  antelope, 
As  gracefully  and  gaily  springs 
As  o'er  the  marble  courts  of  kings. 

"  Then  come  —  thine  Arab  maid  will  be 
The  loved  and  lone  acacia-tree, 
The  antelope,  whose  feet  shall  bless 
With  their  light  sound  thy  loneliness. 

"  Oh,  there  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart 
An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart,  — 
As  if  the  soul  that  minute  caught 
Some  treasure  it  through  life  had  sought ; 

"  As  if  the  very  lips  and  eyes, 
Predestined  to  have  all  our  sighs, 
And  never  be  forgot  again, 
Sparkled  and  spoke  before  us  then! 

"  So  came  thine  every  glance  and  tone, 
When  first  on  me  they  breathed  and  shone ; 
New,  as  if  brought  from  other  spheres, 
Yet  welcome  as  if  loved  for  years. 

"  Then  fly  with  me,  —  if  thou  hast  known 
No  other  flame,  nor  falsely  thrown 
A  gem  away,  that  thou  hadst  sworn 
Should  ever  in  thy  heart  be  worn. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM.        26$ 

"  Come,  if  the  love  thou  hast  for  me 
Is  pure  and  fresh  as  mine  for  thee,  — 
Fresh  as  the  fountain  underground, 
When  first  'tis  by  the  lapwing  found. 

"  But  if  for  me  thou  dost  forsake 
Some  other  maid,  and  rudely  break 
Her  worshipp'd  image  from  its  base, 
To  give  to  me  the  ruin'd  place,  — 

"  Then,  fare  thee  well  —  I'd  rather  make 
My  bower  upon  some  icy  lake 
When  thawing  suns  begin  to  shine, 
Than  trust  to  love  so  false  as  thine ! M 

There  was  a  pathos  in  this  lay 

That,  e'en  without  enchantment's  art, 
Would  instantly  have  found  its  way 

Deep  into  Selim's  burning  heart ; 
But  breathing,  as  it  did,  a  tone 
To  earthly  lutes  and  lips  unknown, 
With  every  chord  fresh  from  the  touch 
Of  Music's  Spirit,  —  'twas  too  much  ! 
Starting,  he  dash'd  away  the  cup,  — 

Which  all  the  time  of  this  sweet  air 
His  hand  had  held,  untasted,  up, 

As  if  'twere  fix'd  by  magic  there,  — 
And  naming  her,  so  long  unnamed, 
So  long  unseen,  wildly  exclaim'd, 
"  O  Nourmahal !  O  Nourmahal ! 

Hadst  thou  but  sung  this  witching  strain. 


266  LALLA   ROOKH. 

I  could  forget  —  forgive  thee  all, 
And  never  leave  those  eyes  again." 

The  mask  is  off — the  charm  is  wrought 
And  Selim  to  his  heart  has  caught, 
In  blushes,  more  than  ever  bright, 
His  Nourmahal,  his  Haram's  Light! 
And  well  do  vanish'd  frowns  enhance 
The  charm  of  every  brighten'd  glance ; 
And  dearer  seems  each  dawning  smile 
For  having  lost  its  light  awhile ; 
And,  happier  now  for  all  her  sighs, 

As  on  his  arm  her  head  reposes, 
She  whispers  him  with  laughing  eyes, 

"  Remember,  love,  the  Feast  of  Roses 


FADLADEEN,  at  the  conclusion  of  this  light  rhap- 
sody, took  occasion  to  sum  up  his  opinion  of  the 
young  Cashmerian's  poetry,  —  of  which,  he  trusted, 
they  had  that  evening  heard  the  last.  Having 
recapitulated  the  epithets  "frivolous"  —  "inhar- 
monious"—  "nonsensical,"  he  proceeded  to  say 
that,  viewing  it  in  the  most  favorable  light,  it 
resembled  one  of  those  Maldivian  boats  to  which 
the  Princess  had  alluded  in  the  relation  of  her 
dream,  —  a  slight,  gilded  thing,  sent  adrift  without 
rudder  or  ballast,  and  with  nothing  but  vapid  sweets 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM.        267 

and  faded  flowers  on  board.  The  profusion,  indeed, 
of  flowers  and  birds  which  this  poet  had  ready  on 
all  occasions, — not  to  mention  dews,  gems,  etc., 
—  was  a  most  oppressive  kind  of  opulence  to  his 
hearers ;  and  had  the  unlucky  effect  of  giving  to  his 
style  all  the  glitter  of  the  flower-garden  without  its 
method,  and  all  the  flutter  of  the  aviary  without 
its  song.  In  addition  to  this,  he  chose  his  subjects 
badly,  and  was  always  most  inspired  by  the  worst 
parts  of  them.  The  charms  of  paganism,  the  merits 
of  rebellion,  —  these  were  the  themes  honored  with 
his  particular  enthusiasm ;  and,  in  the  poem  just 
recited,  one  of  his  most  palatable  passages  was  in 
praise  of  that  beverage  of  the  Unfaithful,  wine;  — 
"  being,  perhaps,"  said  he,  relaxing  into  a  smile,  as 
conscious  of  his  own  character  in  the  Haram  on 
this  point,  "one  of  those  bards  whose  fancy  owes 
all  its  illumination  to  the  grape,  like  that  painted 
porcelain,  so  curious  and  so  rare,  whose  images  are 
only  visible  when  liquor  is  poured  into  it."  Upon 
the  whole,  it  was  his  opinion,  from  the  specimens 
which  they  had  heard,  and  which,  he  begged  to  say, 
were  the  most  tiresome  part  of  the  journey,  that  — 
whatever  other  merits  this  well-dressed  young  gen- 
tleman might  possess  —  poetry  was  by  no  means  his 
proper  avocation:  "and  indeed,"  concluded  the 
critic,  "from  his  fondness  for  flowers  and  for 
birds,  I  would  venture  to  suggest  that  a  florist  or 
a  bird-catcher  is  a  much  more  suitable  calling  for 
him  than  a  poet." 


268  LALLA   ROOKH. 

They  had  now  begun  to  ascend  those  barren 
mountains  which  separate  Cashmere  from  the  rest 
of  India;  and  as  the  heats  were  intolerable,  and 
the  time  of  their  encampments  limited  to  the  few 
hours  necessary  for  refreshment  and  repose,  there 
was  an  end  to  all  their  delightful  evenings,  and 
Lalla  Rookh  saw  no  more  of  Feramorz.  She  now 
felt  that  her  short  dream  of  happiness  was  over, 
and  that  she  had  nothing  but  the  recollection  of  its 
few  blissful  hours,  like  the  one  draught  of  sweet 
water  that  serves  the  camel  across  the  wilderness, 
to  be  her  heart's  refreshment  during  the  dreary 
waste  of  life  that  was  before  her.  The  blight  that 
had  fallen  upon  her  spirits  soon  found  its  way  to 
her  cheek,  and  her  ladies  saw  with  regret  —  though 
not  without  some  suspicion  of  the  cause  —  that  the 
beauty  of  their  mistress,  of  which  they  were  almost 
as  proud  as  of  their  own,  was  fast  vanishing  away 
at  the  very  moment  of  all  when  she  had  most  need 
of  it.  What  must  the  King  of  Bucharia  feel,  when, 
instead  of  the  lively  and  beautiful  Lalla  Rookh, 
whom  the  poets  of  Delhi  had  described  as  more  per- 
fect than  the  divinest  images  in  the  house  of  Azor, 
he  should  receive  a  pale  and  inanimate  victim,  upon 
whose  cheek  neither  health  nor  pleasure  bloomed, 
and  from  whose  eyes  Love  had  fled,  —  to  hide  him- 
self in  her  heart  ? 

If  anything  could  have  charmed  away  the  melan- 
choly of  her  spirits,  it  would  have  been  the  fresh 
airs  and  enchanting  scenery  of  that  Valley  which 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM.        269 

the  Persians  so  justly  called  the  Unequalled.  But 
neither  the  coolness  of  its  atmosphere,  so  luxurious 
after  toiling  up  those  bare  and  burning  mountains, 
—  neither  the  splendor  of  the  minarets  and  pagodas 
that  shone  out  from  the  depth  of  its  woods,  nor  the 
grottos,  hermitages,  and  miraculous  fountains  which 
make  every  spot  of  that  region  holy  ground,  — 
neither  the  countless  water-falls  that  rush  into  the 
Valley  from  all  those  high  and  romantic  mountains 
that  encircle  it,  nor  the  fair  city  on  the  Lake,  whose 
houses,  roofed  with  flowers,  appeared  at  a  distance 
like  one  vast  and  variegated  parterre ;  —  not  all 
these  wonders  and  glories  of  the  most  lovely  country 
under  the  sun  could  steal  her  heart  for  a  minute 
from  those  sad  thoughts,  which  but  darkened  and 
grew  bitterer  every  step  she  advanced. 

The  gay  pomps  and  processions  that  met  her 
upon  her  entrance  into  the  Valley,  and  the  mag- 
nificence with  which  the  roads  all  along  were  deco- 
rated, did  honor  to  the  taste  and  gallantry  of  the 
young  King.  It  was  night  when  they  approached 
the  city,  and,  for  the  last  two  miles,  they  had  passed 
under  arches,  thrown  from  hedge  to  hedge,  festooned 
with  only  those  rarest  roses  from  which  the  Attar 
Gul,  more  precious  than  gold,  is  distilled,  and  illu- 
minated in  rich  and  fanciful  forms  with  lanterns  of 
the  triple-colored  tortoise-shell  of  Pegu.  Sometimes, 
from  a  dark  wood  by  the  side  of  the  road,  a  display 
of  fireworks  would  break  out,  so  sudden  and  so 
brilliant,  that  a  Brahmin  might  fancy  he  beheld 


2?O  LALLA   ROOKH. 

that  grove  in  whose  purple  shade  the  God  of  Battles 
was  born,  bursting  into  a  flame  at  the  moment  of 
his  birth  ;  —  while,  at  other  times,  a  quick  and  play- 
ful irradiation  continued  to  brighten  all  the  fields 
and  gardens  by  which  they  passed,  forming  a  line 
of  dancing  lights  along  the  horizon ;  like  the 
meteors  of  the  north,  as  they  are  seen  by  those 
hunters  who  pursue  the  white  and  blue  foxes  on  the 
confines  of  the  Icy  Sea. 

These  arches  and  fireworks  delighted  the  Ladies 
of  the  Princess  exceedingly;  and  with  their  usual 
good  logic,  they  deduced  from  his  taste  for  illumi- 
nations, that  the  King  of  Bucharia  would  make  the 
most  exemplary  husband  imaginable.  Nor,  indeed, 
could  Lalla  Rookh  herself  help  feeling  the  kindness 
and  splendor  with  which  the  young  bridegroom 
welcomed  her ;  but  she  also  felt  how  painful  is  the 
gratitude  which  kindness  from  those  we  cannot  love 
excites  ;  and  that  their  best  blandishments  come  over 
the  heart  with  all  that  chilling  and  deadly  sweetness 
which  we  can  fancy  in  the  cold,  odoriferous  wind 
that  is  to  blow  over  this  earth  in  the  last  days. 

The  marriage  was  fixed  for  the  morning  after 
her  arrival,  when  she  was,  for  the  first  time,  to  be 
presented  to  the  monarch  in  that  Imperial  Palace 
beyond  the  lake  called  the  Shalimar.  Though  never 
before  had  a  night  of  more  wakeful  and  anxious 
thought  been  passed  in  the  Happy  Valley,  yet,  when 
she  rose  in  the  morning,  and  her  Ladies  came 
around  her,  to  assist  in  the  adjustment  of  the  bridal 


THE   LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM.        2/1 

ornaments,  they  thought  they  had  never  seen  her 
look  half  so  beautiful.  What  she  had  lost  of  the 
bloom  and  radiancy  of  her  charms  was  more  than 
made  up  by  that  intellectual  expression,  that  soul 
beaming  forth  from  the  eyes,  which  is  worth  all  the 
rest  of  loveliness.  When  they  had  tinged  her  fingers 
with  the  Henna  leaf,  and  placed  upon  her  brow  a 
small  coronet  of  jewels,  of  the  shape  worn  by  the 
ancient  Queens  of  Bucharia,  they  flung  over  her 
head  the  rose-colored  bridal  veil,  and  she  proceeded 
to  the  barge  that  was  to  convey  her  across  the  Lake ; 
—  first  kissing,  with  a  mournful  look,  the  little 
amulet  of  cornelian  which  her  father  at  parting  had 
hung  about  her  neck. 

The  morning  was  as  fresh  and  fair  as  the  maid 
on  whose  nuptials  it  rose,  and  the  shining  Lake,  all 
covered  with  boats,  the  minstrels  playing  upon  the 
shores  of  the  islands,  and  the  crowded  summer- 
houses  on  the  green  hills  around,  with  shawls  and 
banners  waving  from  their  roofs,  presented  such  a 
pictuie  of  animated  rejoicing,  as  only  she,  who  was 
the  object  of  it  all,  did  not  feel  with  transport.  To 
Lalla  Rookh  alone  it  was  a  melancholy  pageant  •, 
nor  could  she  have  even  borne  to  look  upon  the 
scene,  were  it  not  for  a  hope  that,  among  the  crowds 
around,  she  might  once  more  perhaps  catch  a  glimpse 
of  Feramorz.  So  much  was  her  imagination  haunted 
by  this  thought,  that  there  was  scarcely  an  islet  or 
boat  she  passed  on  the  way,  at  which  her  heart  did 
not  flutter  with  the  momentary  fancy  that  he  was 


2/2  LALLA   ROOKH. 

there.  Happy,  in  her  eyes,  the  humblest  slave  upon 
whom  the  light  of  his  dear  looks  fell !  —  in  the  barge 
immediately  after  the  Princess  sat  Fadladeen,  with 
his  silken  curtains  thrown  widely  apart,  that  all 
might  have  the  benefit  of  his  august  presence,  and 
with  his  head  full  of  the  speech  he  was  to  deliver 
to  the  King,  "  concerning  Feramorz,  and  literature, 
and  the  Chabuk,  as  connected  therewith." 

They  now  had  entered  the  canal  which  leads 
from  the  Lake  to  the  splendid  domes  and  saloons 
of  the  Shalimar,  and  went  gliding  on  through  the 
gardens  that  ascended  from  each  bank,  full  of  flow- 
ering shrubs  that  made  the  air  all  perfume  ;  while 
from  the  middle  of  the  canal  rose  jets  of  water, 
smooth  and  unbroken,  to  such  a  dazzling  height, 
that  they  stood  like  tall  pillars  of  diamond  in  the 
sunshine.  After  sailing  under  the  arches  of  various 
saloons,  they  at  length  arrived  at  the  last  and  most 
magnificent,  where  the  monarch  awaited  the  com- 
ing of  his  bride ;  and  such  was  the  agitation  of  her 
heart  and  frame  that  it  was  with  difficulty  she  could 
walk  up  the  marble  steps,  which  were  covered  with 
cloth  of  gold  for  her  ascent  from  the  barge.  At 
the  end  of  the  hall  stood  two  thrones,  as  precious 
as  the  Cerulean  Throne  of  Coolburga,  on  one  of 
which  sat  Aliris,  the  youthful  King  of  Bucharia, 
and  on  the  other  was,  in  a  few  minutes,  to  be  placed 
the  most  beautiful  Princess  in  the  world.  Imme- 
diately upon  the  entrance  of  Lalla  Rookh  into  the 
saloon,  the  monarch  descended  from  his  throne  to 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HARAM.        2/3 

meet  her ;  but  scarcely  had  he  time  to  take  her  hand 
in  his,  when  she  screamed  with  surprise,  and  fainted 
at  his  feet.  It  was  Feramorz  himself  that  stood 
before  her  !  Feramorz  was,  himself,  the  Sovereign 
of  Bucharia,  who  in  this  disguise  had  accompanied 
his  young  bride  from  Delhi,  and,  having  won  her 
love  as  an  humble  minstrel,  now  amply  deserved  to 
enjoy  it  as  a  King. 

The  consternation  of  Fadladeen  at  this  discovery 
was,  for  the  moment,  almost  pitiable.  But  change 
of  opinion  is  a  resource  too  convenient  in  courts  for 
this  experienced  courtier  not  to  have  learned  to 
avail  himself  of  it.  His  criticisms  were  all,  of 
course,  recanted  instantly :  he  was  seized  with  an 
admiration  of  the  King's  verses,  as  unbounded  as, 
he  begged  him  to  believe,  it  was  disinterested  ;  and 
the  following  week  saw  him  in  possession  of  an 
additional  place,  swearing  by  all  the  Saints  of  Islam 
that  never  had  there  existed  so  great  a  poet  as  the 
Monarch  Aliris,  and,  moreover,  ready  to  prescribe 
his  favorite  regimen  of  the  Chabuk  for  every  man, 
woman,  and  child  that  dared  to  think  otherwise. 

Of  the  happiness  of  the  King  and  Queen  of 
Bucharia,  after  such  a  beginning,  there  can  be  but 
little  doubt ;  and,  among  the  lesser  symptoms,  it  is 
recorded  of  Lalla  Rookh,  that,  to  the  day  of  her 
death,  in  memory  of  their  delightful  journey,  she 
never  called  the  King  by  any  other  name  than 
Feramorz. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF 

HENRY  ALTEMUS  COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA        -.' ^i'jmti 

ALTEMUS'  ILLUSTRATED  VADEMECUM.  SERIES. 

Containing  the  most  popular  works  of  standard 
authors.  HANDY  VOLUME,  I/ARGE  TYPE  editions, 
with  appropriate  text  and  full-page  illustrations. 
Superior  paper  and  printing.  Illuminated  title 
pages,  etched  portraits,  and  original  aquarelle 
frontispieces  in  eight  colors. 

Full  cloth,  ivory  finish ,  embossed  gold  and  inlaid 
colors,  with  side  titles,  boxed,  40  cents. 


...     i  Abbe  Constantin.     Halevy. 

...    2  Adventures  of  a  Brownie.    Mulock. 

...  3  Alice's  Adventures  in  Wonderland. 
Carroll. 

...    4  American  Notes.    Kipling. 

...    5  Autobiography  of  Benjamin  Franklin. 

...    6  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table.  Holmes. 

...    7  A  Son  of  the  Carolinas.    Satterthwaite . 

...    8  Antony  and  Cleopatra.    Shakespeare 

-..  9  A  Midsummer  Night'i,  Dream.  Shakes- 
peare. 

..-  u  Bab  Ballads  and  Savoy  Songs.    Gilbert. 

...  12  Bacon's  Essays. 

...  13  Balzac's  Shorter  Stories. 

...  14  Barrack-Room  Ballads  and  Ditties. 
Kipling. 

...  15  Battle  of  Life.    Dickens. 

...  1 6  Biglow  Papers.    Lowell. 

...  17  Black  Beauty.    Serve II. 

...  18  Blithedale  Romance,  The.    Hawthorne. 

...  19  Bracebridge  Hall.    Irving. 

...  20  Bryant's  Poems. 


Altemus'  New  Illustrated  Vademecom  Series.— Continue* 

...  21  Bcecher's  Addresses. 

...  22  Best  Thoughts.    Henry  Drummond. 

...  23  Brook's  Addresses. 

...  24  Black  Rock.     Connor. 

...  26  Camille.    Dutttas,  Jr. 

...  27  Carmen.    Merimee. 

...  28  Charlotte  Temple.    Rozuson. 

...  29  Chesterfield's    Letters,    Sentences    and 

Maxims. 

...  30  Child's  Garden  of  Verses.    Stevenson. 
...  31  Chllde  Harold's  Pilgrimage.    Byron. 
...  32  Chimes,  The.    Dickens. 
...  33  Christie's  Old  Organ.     Walton. 
...  34  Christmas  Carol,  A.    Dickens. 
...  35  Confessions   of   an   Opium    Eater.     De 

Quincy. 

...  36  Cranford.     Gaskell. 
...  37  Cricket  on  the  Hearth.    Dickens. 
...  38  Crown  of  Wild  Olive,  The.    Ruskin. 
...  39  Comedy  of  Errors.    Shakespeare. 
...  40  Crucifixion  of  Philip  Strong.    Sheldon. 
...  42  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish.  Longfellow. 
...  43  Day  Breaketh,  The.    Shugert. 
...  44  Days    with     Sir     Roger    De    Coverley. 

Addison. 

...  45  Discourses,  Epictetus. 
...  46  Dog  of  Flanders,  A.    Ouida. 
...  47  Dream  Life.     Mitchell. 
...  48  Daily  Food  for  Christians. 
...  49  Drumrnond's  Addresses. 
...  51  Emerson's  Essays,  First  Series. 
...  52  Emerson's  Essays,  Second  Series. 
...  53  Endymion.    Keats. 
...  54  Essays  of  Elia.    Lamb. 
...  55  Ethics  of  the  Dust.    Ruskin. 
...  56  Evangeline.    Longfellow. 


t 

Altemus'  New  Illustrated  Vademecum  Series.— Continued 

...  57  Elizabeth  and  Her  German  Garden. 

...  58  Englishwoman's  Love  Letters. 

...  61  Fairy  Land  of  Science.    Buckley. 

...  62  Fanchon.    Sand. 

...  63  For  Daily  Bread.    Sienkiewicz. 

...  67  Grammar  of  Palmistry.    St.  Hill, 

...  68  Greek  Heroes.    Kingsley. 

...  69  Gulliver's  Travels.    Swift, 

...  70  Gold  Dust. 

...  73  Hamlet.    Shakespeare. 

...  74  Hania.    Sienkiewicz. 

...  75  Haunted  Man,  The.    Dickens. 

...  76  Heroes  and  Hero  Worship.    Carlyle. 

...  77  Hiawatha,  The  Song  of.    Longfellow. 

...  78  Holmes'  Poems. 

...  79  House  of  the  Seven  Gables.    Hawthorne. 

...  80  House  Of  the  Wolf.      Wcyman. 

...  81  Hyperion.    Longfellow. 

...  87  Idle  Thoughts  of  an  Idle  Fellow.  Jerome. 

...  88  Idylls  of  the  King.     Tennyson. 

...  89  Impregnable  Rock   of   Holy    Scripture. 

Gladstone. 

...  90  In  Black  and  White.    Kipling. 
...  91  In  Memoriam.     Tennyson. 
...  92  Imitation  of  Christ.    A' Kempis. 
...  93  In  His  Steps.     Sheldon. 
...  95  Julius  Caesar.    Shakespeare. 
...  96  Jessica's  First  Prayer.    Stretton. 
...  97  J.  Cole.     Gellibrand. 
...  98  John  Ploughman's  Pictures.    Spurgeon. 
...  99  John  Ploughman's  Talk.    Spurgeon. 
...100  King  Richard  HI.    Shakespeare. 
...101  Kavanagh.    Longfellow. 
...102  Kidnapped.    Stevenson. 
...103  Knickerbocker's  History  of  New  York. 

Irving. 


Altcmus'  New  Illustrated  Vademecum  Series.— Continued 

...104  Keble's  Christian  Year. 

...105  Kept  for  the  Master's  Use.    Havergal. 

...i 06  King  Lear.    Shakespeare. 

...107  La  Belle  Nivernaise.    Daudet. 

...108  Laddie  and  Miss  Toosey's  Mission. 

...109  Lady  of  the  Lake.    Scott. 

...no  Lalla  Rookh.    Moore. 

...in  Last  Essays  of  Eiia.    Lamb. 

...112  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,  The.    Macaulay. 

...113  Let  Us  Follow  Him.    Sienkieiuicz. 

...114  Light  of  Asia.    Arnold. 

...115  Light  That  Failed,  The.    Kipling. 

...116  Little  Lame  Prince.    Mulock. 

...117  Longfellow's  Poems,  Vol.  I. 

...118  Longfellow's  Poems,  Vol.  II. 

...119  Lowell's  Poems. 

...120  Lucile.     Meredith. 

...121  Line  Upon  Line. 

...126  Magic  Nuts,  The.    Molesworth. 

...127  Manon  Lescaut.    Prevost. 

...128  Marmion.    Scott. 

...129  Master  of  Ballantrae,  The.    Stevenson. 

...130  Milton's  Poems.-  //  tma  Maelc 

...131  Mine  Own  People.    Kipling. 

...132  Minister  of  the  World,  A.    Mason. 

...133  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse.    Hawthorne. 

...134  Mulvaney  Stories.     Kipling. 

...135  Macbeth.     Shakespeare. 

...140  Natural    Law   in   the   Spiritual    World. 

Drummond. 
...141  Nature,  Addresses  and  Lectures. 

Emerson. 
...145  Old  Christmas.     Irving. 


Altemus'  New  Illustrated  Vademecum  series.— Continued 

...146  Outre-Mer.    Longfellow. 

...147  Othello,  the  Moor  of  Venice.  Shakespeare, 

...150  Paradise  Lost.    Milton. 

...151  Paradise  Regained.    Milton. 

...152  Paul  and  Virginia.    Sainte  Pierre. 

...154  Phantom  Rickshaw.    Kipling. 

...155  Pilgrim's  Progress,  The.    Bunyan, 

...156  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills.    Kipling. 

...157  Pleasures  of  Life.    Lubbock. 

...158  Plutarch's  Lives. 

...159  Poe's  Poems. 

...i 60  Prince  of  the  House  of  David.  Ingrahan, 

...161  Princess  and  Maud.     Tennyson. 

...162  Prue  and  I.    Curtis. 

...163  Peep  of  Day. 

...164  Precept  Upon  Precept. 

...169  Queen  of  the  Air.    Ruskin. 

...172  Rab  and  His  Friends.    Brown. 

...173  Representative  Men.    Emerson. 

...174  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor.    Mitchell. 

...175  Rip  Van  Winkle.    Irving. 

...176  Romance  of  a  Poor  Young  Man.    FeuiUet. 

...177  Rubalyat  of  Omar  Khayyam. 

...178  Romeo  and  Juliet,    Shakespeare. 

...179  Robert  Hardy's  Seven  Days.    Sheldon. 

...182  Samantha  at  Saratoga.    Uollcy. 

...183  Sartor  Resartus.     Carlyle. 

...184  Scarlet  Letter,  The.    Hawthorne. 

...185  School  for  Scandal.    Sheridan. 

...186  Sentimental  Journey,  A.    Sterne. 

...187  Sesame  and  Lilies.    Ruskin. 

...i8S  Shakespeare's  Heroines.    Jameson. 

...189  She  Stoops  to  Conquer.     Goldsmith. 


Altemus'  New  Illustrated  Vademecum  series.— Continued 

...190  Silas  Marner.    Eliot. 
...191  Sketch  Book,  The.    Irving. 
...192  Snow  Image,  The,    Hawthorne. 
...193  The  Shadowless  Man.     Chamisso. 
...199  Tales  from  Shakespeare.    Lamb. 
...200  Tangle  wood  Tales.    Hawthorne. 
...201  Tartarin  of  Tarascon.    Daudet. 
...202  Tartarin  on  the  Alps.    Daudet. 
...203  Ten  Nights  in  a  Bar-Room.    Arthur. 
...204  Things  Will  Take  a  Turn.    Harraden. 
...205  Thoughts.    Marcus  Aurdius. 
...206  Through  The  Looking  Glass.    Carroll. 
...207  Tom  Brown's  School  Days.    Hughes. 
...2c8  Treasure  Island.    Stevenson. 
...209  Twice  Told  Tales.    Hawthorne. 
..210  Two  Years  Before  the  Mast.    Dana. 
...2ii  The  Merchant  of  Venice.    Shakespeare. 
...212  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Shakespeare. 

...217  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.    Siozve. 
...218  Undine.     Fouque. 
...222  Vic,  the  autobiography  of  a  fox-terrier. 

Marsh. 

..223  Vicar  of  Wakefieid.    Goldsmith. 
...224  Visits  of  Elizabeth,  The.     Clyn. 
...226  Walden.     Thoreau. 
...22j  Water-Babies.    Kingsley. 
...228  Weird  Tales.    Poe. 
...229  What  is  Art.     Tolstoi. 
...230  Whittier's  Poems,  Vol.  I. 
...231  Whittier's  Poems,  Vol.  II. 
...232  Window  in  Thrums.    Barrie. 
...233  Women's  Work  in  the  Home.    Farrar. 
...234  Wonder  Book,  A.    Hawthorne. 
..241  Yellowplash  Papers,  The.      Thackeray. 
...244  Zoe.    By  author  cf  Laddie,  etc. 


Altemus'  Young  Peoples'  Library.— Continued. 

ALTEMUS*  DAINTY  SERIES  OF 
CHOICE  GIFT  BOOKS. 

PRICE,  50  CENT5. 


Bound  in  half-white  Vellum,  illuminated  sides, 
unique  design  in  gold,  with  numerous  half-tone 
illustrations.  Size,  6j£  x  8  inches. 

...  I  The  Silver  Buckle.    By  M.  Nataline  Crump- 
ton.     With  12  illustrations. 
...  2  Charles  Dickens'  Children  Stories.    With 

30  illustrations. 
...  3  The   Children's  Shakespeare.      With    30 

illustrations. 
...  4  Young  Robin  Hood.     By  G.  Manville  Fenn. 

With  30  illustrations. 
...  5  Honor  Bright.    By  Mary  C.  Rowsell.    With 

24  illustrations. 
...  6  The  Voyage  of  the  Mary  Adair.  By  Frances 

E.  Crompton.     With  19  illustrations. 
...  7  The  Kingfisher's  Egg.    By  L.  T.  Meade. 

With  24  illustrations. 

...  8  Tattine.     By  Ruth  Ogden.      With  24  illus- 
trations. 
...  9  The  Doings  of  a  Dear  Little  Couple.    By 

Mary  D.  Brine.     With  20  illustrations. 
...10  Our  Soldier  Boy.     By  G.   Manville  Fenn. 

With  23  illustrations. 
...II  The  Little  Skipper.    By  G.  Manville  Fenn, 

With  22  illustrations. 
...12  Little  Qervaise  and  other  Stories.    With 

22  illustrations. 
...13  The   Christmas    Fairy.    By  John  Strange 

Winter.     With  24  illustrations. 
...14  Molly,  The  Drummer  Boy.     Crompton. 


Henry  Altemus*  Publications. 


ALTEMDS'  ILLUSTRATED 

ONE  SYLLABLE  SERIES  FOR  YOUNG  READERS. 


Embracing  popular  works  arranged  for  the 
young  folks  in  words  of  one  syllable. 

Printed  from  extra  large  clear  type  on  fine  en- 
amelled paper  and  fully  illustrated  by  famous 
artists.  The  handsomest  line  of  books  for  young 
children  before  the  public. 

Fine  English  cloth  ;  handsome,  new,  original 
designs.  50  cents. 

1.  /Esop's  Fables.     62  illustrations. 

2.  A  Child's  Life  of  Christ.     49  illustrations. 

3.  A  Child's  Story  of  the    Bible.        72  illus- 

trations. 

4.  The  Adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe.      70 

illustrations. 

5.  Banyan's   Pilgrim's    Progress.        46    illus- 

trations. 

6.  Swiss  Family  Robinson.     50  illustrations. 
7      Qullivcrfs  Travels.     50  illustrations. 

8.    Bible  Stories  for  Little  Children.    80  illus- 
trations. 


ALTEMUS' 

YOUNG  PEOPLES*  LIBRARY. 

PRICE,  50  CENTS  EACH. 


Robinson  Crusoe.  (Chiefly  in  words  of  one 
syllable.)  His  life  and  strange,  surprising 
adventures,  with  70  beautiful  illustrations  by 
Walter  Paget. 

Alice's  Adventures  in  Wonderland.  With  42 
illustrations  by  John  Tenniel.  "The  most  de- 
lightful of  children's  stories.  Elegcli!:  and 
delicious  nonsense." — "Saturday  Review." 

Through  the  Looking-glass  and  what  Alice 
Found  There.  A  companion  to  "  Alice  in 
Wonderland,"  with  50  illustrations  by  John 
Tenniel. 


Altemus'  Young  Peoples'  Library.— Continued. 

Banyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress.  Arranged  for 
young  readers.  With  50  full-page  and  text 
illustrations. 

A  Child's  Story  of  the  Bible.  With  72  full-page 
illustrations. 

A  Child's  Life  of  Christ.  "With  49  illustrations. 
Non-sectarian.  Children  are  early  attracted 
and  sweetly  riveted  by  the  wonderful  Story  of 
the  Master  from  the  Manger  to  the  Throne. 

Swiss  Family  Robinson.  With  50  illustrations. 
The  father  of  the  family  tells  the  tale  of  the 
vicissitudes  through  which  he  and  his  wife  and 
children  pass,  the  wonderful  discoveries  made 
and  dangers  encoiintered.  The  book  is  full  of 
interest  and  instruction. 

Christopher  Columbus  and  the  Discovery  of 
America.  With  70  illustrations.  Every  Am- 
erican boy  and  girl  should  be  acquainted  with 
the  story  of  the  life  of  the  great  discoverer, 
with  its  struggles,  adventures  and  triab. 

The  Story   of  Exploration  and  Discovery  in     | 
Africa.    With   So  illustrations.     Records  the 
experiences  of  adventures  and  discoveries  in     ii 
developing  the  "Dark  Continent." 

The  Fables  of  /Esop.      Compiled  from  the  best 
accepted  sources.     With  62  illustrations.     The     I 
fables  of  ^Esop  are  among  tte  very  earliest 
compositions  of  this  kind,  and  probably  have 
never  been  surpassed  for  point  and  brevity. 

Gulliver's  Travels.  Adapted  for  3*oung  readers, 
with  50  illustrations. 

Mother  Goose's  Rhymes,  Jingles  and  Fairy 
Tales.  With  234  illustrations. 

Lives  of  the  Presidents  of  the  United  States. 

By  Prescott  Holmes.  With  portraits  of  the 
Presidents  and  alco  of  the  unsuccessful  candi- 
dates for  the  office  ;  as  well  as  the  ablest  of  the 
Cabinet  officers.  Revised  and  up-to-date. 


Altcmus*  Young  Peoples'  Library.— Continued. 


Vic.     The   Autobiography  of  a   Fox-Terrior.     By 

Marie  More-March.     With  24  illustrations. 
The  Story  of  Adventure  in  the  Frozen  Seas. 

With  70  illustrations.  By  Prescott  Holmes. 
The  book  shows  how  much  can  be  accomplished 
by  steady  perseverance  and  indomitable  pluck. 

Illustrated  Natural  History.  By  the  Rev.  J.  G. 
Wood,  with  80  illustrations.  This  author  has 
done  more  to  popularize  the  study  of  natural 
history  than  any  other  •writer.  The  illustrations 
are  striking  and  life-like. 

A  Child's  History  of  England.  By  Charles 
Dickens,  with  50  illustrations.  Tired  of  listen- 
ing to  his  children  memorize  the  twaddle  of  old- 
fashioned  English  history,  the  author  covered 
the  ground  in  his  own  peculiar  and  happy  style 
for  his  own  children's  use.  When  the  work 
was  published  its  success  was  instantaneous. 

Black  Beauty :  The  Autobiography  of  a  Horse. 
By  Anna  Sewell,  with  50  illustrations.  This 
•work  is  to  the  animal  kingdom  what  "  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin  "  was  to  the  Afro- American. 

The  Arabian  Nights  Entertainments.  With 
130  illustrations.  Contains  the  most  favorably 
known  of  the  stories. 

Grimm's  Fairy  Tales.  With  55  illustrations. 
The  tales  are  a  wonderful  collection,  as  in- 
teresting, from  a  literary  point  of  view,  as  they 
are  delightful  as  stories. 

Flower  Fables.  By  Louisa  May  Alcott.  With 
numerous  illustrations,  full-page  and  text. 

A  series  of  very  interesting  fairy  tales  by  the 
most  charming  of  American  story-tellers. 

Andersen's  Fairy  Tales.  By  Hans  Christian 
Andersen.  With  77  illustrations. 

These  wonderful  tales  are  not  only  attractive 
to  the  young,  but  equally  acceptable  to  those 
of  mature  years. 


Altemus'  Young  Peoples'  Library.— Continued. 

Grandfather's  Chair;  A  History  for  Youth.    By 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne.  With  60  illustrations. 
The  story  of  America  from  the  landing  of  the 
Puritans  to  the  acknowledgment  without  re- 
serve of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States. 

Aunt  Martha's  Corner  Cupboard.  By  Mary  and 
Elizabeth  Kirby,  with  60  illustrations.  Stories 
about  Tea,  Coffee,  Sugar,  Rice  and  China-ware, 
and  other  accessories  of  the  well-kept  Cupboard. 

Battles  of  the  War  for  Independence.  By 
Prescott  Holmes,  with  70  illustrations.  A 
graphic  and  full  history  of  the  Rebellion  of  the 
American  Colonies  from  the  yoke  and  oppres- 
sion of  England.  Including  also  an  account  of 
the  second  war  with  Great  Britain ,  and  the 
War  with  Mexico. 

Battles  of  the  War  for  the  Union.  By  Prescott 
Holmes,  with  So  illustrations.  A  correct  and 
impartial  account  of  the  greatest  civil  war  in 
the  annals  of  history.  Both  of  these  histories 
of  American  wars  are  a  necessary  part  of  the  edu- 
cation of  all  intelligent  American  boys  and  girls. 

Water  Babies.  By  Charles  Kingsley,  with  84 
illustrations.  A  charming  fairy  tale. 

Young  People's  History  of  the  War  with  Spain. 
By  Prescott  Holmes,  with  86  illustrations.  The 
story  of  the  war  for  the  freedom  of  Cuba, 
arranged  for  young  readers. 

Heroes  of  the  United  States  Navy.  By  Hart- 
well  James,  with  65  illustrations.  From  the 
days  of  the  Revolution  until  the  end  of  the 
War  with  Spain. 

Military  Heroes  of  the  United  States.  By 
Hartwell  Jarnes,  with  nearly  loo  illustrations. 
Their  brave  deeds  from  Lexington  to  Santiago, 
told  in  a  captivating  manner. 

Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.  By  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe, 
with  50  illustrations.  Arranged  for  young 
readers. 

Tales  from  Shakespeare.  By  Charles  and  Mary 
Lamb.  With  65  illustrations. 


Altemus'  Young  Peoples'  Library.— Continued. 

Adventures  In  Toyland.    70  illustrations. 
Adventures  of  a  Brownie.    18  illustrations. 
Mixed  Pickles.     31  illustrations. 
Little  Lame  Prince.    24  illustrations. 
The  Sleepy  King.    77  illustrations. 
Romulus,  the  Founder  of  Rome.    With  49 

illustrations. 
Cyrus    the    Great,    the    Founder   of  the 

Persian  Empire.     With  40  illustrations;. 
Darius  the  Great,  King  of  the  Medes  and 

Persian.     With  34  illustrations. 
Xerxes  the  Great,  King  of  Persia.    With 

39  illustrations. 
Alexander  the  Great,  King  of  Macedon. 

With  51  illustrations. 

Pyrrhus,  King  of   Epirus.     With  45  illus- 
trations. 

Hannibal,  the  Carthaginian.    With  37  illus- 
trations. 
Julius    Caesar,  the   Roman    Conqueror. 

With  44  illustrations. 
Alfred  the  Great,  of  England.    With  40 

illustrations. 
William  the  Conqueror,  of  England.  With 

43  illustrations. 
Hernando    Cortez,  the    Conqueror   of 

Mexico.     With  30  illustrations. 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots.  With  45  illustrations. 
Queen    Elizabeth,    of    England.    With  49 

illustrations. 
King  Charles  the  First,  of  England.    With 

41  illustrations. 
King  Charles   the  Second,    of   England. 

With  38  illustrations. 
Maria  Antoinette,  Queen  of  France.    With 

41  illustrations. 
Madam  Roland,  A  Heroine  of  the  French 

Revolution.    With  42  illustrations. 
Josephine,  Empress  of  France.    With  40 

illustrations. 


ILLUSTRATED  DEVOTIONAL  SERIES 


An  entirely  new  line  of  popular  Religious 
ture,  carefully  printed  on  fine  paper,  daintily  and 
durably  bound  in  handy  volume  size. 

Full  White  Vellum,  handsome  new  mosaic  design 
in  gold  and  colors,  gold  edges,  boxed,  50  cents. 

...  i  Abide  in  Christ.    Murray. 

...  3  Beecher's  Addresses. 

...  4  Best  Thoughts.    From  Henry  Drum-man*. 

...  5  Bible  Birthday  Book. 

...  6  Brooks'  Addresses. 

...  7  Buy  Your  Own  Cherries,    Kirton. 

...  8  Changed  Cross,  The. 

...  9  Christian  Life.     Oxenden. 

...10  Christian  Living.    Meyer. 

...12  Christie's  Old  Organ.     Walton. 

...13  Coming  to  Christ.    Havergal. 

...14  Daily  Food  for  Christians. 

...15  Day  Breaketh,  The.    Shugert. 

...17  Drummond's  Addresses. 

...18  Evening  Thoughts.    Havergal. 

...19  Gold  Dust. 

...20  Holy  in  Christ. 

...21  Imitation  of  Christ,  The.    A"1  Kempis. 

...22  Impregnable  Rock  of  Holy  Scripture. 

Gladstone. 

...23  Jessica's  First  Prayer.    Stretton. 
...24  John   Ploughman's   Pictures.     Spurgeon. 
...25  John  Ploughman's  Talk.    Spurgeon. 
...26  Kept  for  the  Master's  Use.    Havergal. 
...27  Keble's  Christian  Year. 
...28  Let  Us  Follow  Him.    Sienkiewicz. 
...29  Like  Christ.    Murray. 
...30  Line  Upon  Line. 
...3.  Manliness  of  Christ,  The.     Hughes. 


Henry  Altemus'  Publications. 


...32  Message  of  Peace,  The.    Church. 
...33  Morning  Thoughts.    Havergal. 
...34  My  King  and  His  Service.    Havergal. 
...35  Natural  Law  in  the  Spiritual  World. 

Drumtnond. 
...37  Pathway  of  Promise. 

...38  Pathway  of  Safety.     Oxenden. 

...39  Peep  of  Day. 

...40  Pilgrim's  Progress,  The.    Bunyan. 

...41  Precept  Upon  Precept. 

...42  Prince  of  the  House  of  David.    Ingraham. 

...44  Shepherd  Psalm.    Meyer. 

...45  Steps  Into  the  Blessed  Life.    Meyer. 

...46  Stepping  Heavenward.    Prentiss. 

...47  The  Throne  of  Grace. 

...50  With  Christ.    Murray. 

The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic  (a  History).  Byjohn  Loth- 
rop  Motley.  55  full-page  half-tone  Engravings.  Complete  in 
two  volumes — over  1,600  pages.  Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  per  set, 
$2.00.  Half  Morocco,  gilt  top,  per  set,  £3  25. 

Quo  Vadis.  A  tale  of  the  time  of  Nero,  by  Henryk  Sienkiewicz. 
Complete  and  unabridged.  Translated  by  Dr.  S.  A.  Binion. 
Illustrated  by  M.  De  Lipman.  Crown  Svo.  Cloth,  ornamen- 
tal, 515  pages,  £1.25. 

With  Fire  and  Sword.  By  the  author  of  "  Quo  Vadis."  A 
tale  of  the  past.  Illustrated.  Crown  Svo.  825  pages,  Ji.oo. 

Pan  Michael.  By  the  author  of  "  Quo  Vadis."  A  historical 
tale.  Illustrated.  Crown  Svo.  530  pages,  $1.00. 

Julian,  the  Apostate.  By  S.  Mereshkovski.  Illustrated.  Cloth 
I2mo.  450  pages,  gi.oo. 

Manual  of  Hythology.  For  the  use  of  Schools,  Art  Students, 
and  General  Readers,  by  Alexander  S.  Murray.  With  Notes, 
Revisions,  and  Additions  by  William  H.  Klapp.  With  200 
illustrations  and  an  exhaustive  Index.  Large  nmo.  Over 
400  pages,  $1 .25. 

The  Age  of  Fable;  or  Beauties  of  Mythology.  By  Thomas 
Bulfincb.  with  Notes,  Revisions,  and  Additions  by  William  H. 
Klapp.  With  200 illustrations  and  an  exhaustive  Index.  Large 
iimo.  450  pages,  $1.25. 

Stephen.  A  Soldier  of  the  Cross.  By  Florence  Morse 
Kingsley,  author  of"  Titus,  a  Comrade  of  the  Cross."  Cloth, 
laino.  369  pages,  $x.oo. 


Henry  Altemus'  Publications. 


The  Crois  Triumphant.  By  Florence  Morse  Kingsley,  author 
of  "  Paul  and  Stephen."  Cloth,  12010.  364  pages,  fi.oo. 

Paul.  A  Herald  of  the  Crocs.  By  Florence  Morse  Kingsley. 
Cloth,  ismo.  450  pagei ,  $1.00. 

The    Pilgrim'*    Progreis,  as  John  Bunyan  wrote  it.     A  fac-      | 
simile   reproduction  of  the  first  edition,  published    in    1678 
Antique  cloth,  izmo.    $1.25. 

The  Fairest  of  the  Pair.  By  Hildegarde  Hawthorne.  Cloth. 
i6tno.  |T. 25. 

Around  the  World  I*  Eighty  Minute*.  Contains  over  TOC 
photographs  of  the  most  famous  places  and  edifices,  with  des- 
criptive text.  Cloth,  50  cents. 

Shakespeare's  Complete  Works.  With  64  Bordell,  and 
numerous  other  illustrations,  four  volumes,  over  a ,000  pages. 
Half  Morocco,  izmo.  Boxed,  per  set.  £3.00. 

The  Care  of  Children.  By  Elizabeth  R.  Scovil.  Cloth,  ismo. 
$1.00 

Preparation  for  Motherhood.  By  Elizabeth  R.  Scovil.  Cloth, 
iamo.  320  pages,  $1.00. 

Baby's  Requirements.  By  Elizabeth  R.  Scovil.  Limp  bind- 
ing, leatherette.  25  cents. 

Names  for  Children.  By  Elizabeth  Robinson  Scovil.  Goth, 
izmo.  40  cents. 

Trif  and  Trlxy.  By  John  Habberton,  author  of  "  Helen's 
Babies."  Cloth,  12010.  50  cents. 

She  Who  Will  Not  When  She  May.  By  Eleanor  G.  Walton. 
Half-tone  illustrations  by  C.  P.  M.  Rumford.  "An  exquisite 
prose  idyll."  Cloth,  gilt  top,  deckle  edges,  fi.oo. 

A  Son  of  the  Carolinas.  By  C.  E.  Satterthwaite.  Cloth, 
izmo.  380  pages,  50  cents. 

What  Women  Should  Know.  By  Mrs.  E.  B.  Duffy.  Cloth, 
3?o  pages,  75  cents. 

Dore  Masterpieces. 

The  Dore  Bible  Gallery.  Containing  100  full-page  engravings 
by  Gustave  Dore. 

Milton's  Paradise  Lost.  With  50  full-page  engravings  by  Gus- 
tave Dore. 

Dante's  Inferno.  With  75  full-page  engravings  by  Gusia-e 
Dore. 

Dante's  Purgatory  and  Paradise.  With  60  full-page  engrav- 
ings by  Gustave  Dore. 

Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King.  With  37  full-page  engraving* 
by  Gustave  Dore. 

The   Rime   of   the   Ancient   Harlner.      By  Samuel  Taylor 
Coleridge,  with  46  full-page  engravings  by  Gustave  Dore. 
Ciotb,  ornamental,  large  quarto  (9  x  12).     Each  ja.oo. 


ALTEMUS'  EDITION  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS. 
HANDY  VOLUME  SIZE. 

With  a  historical  and  critical  introduction  to  f-ac 
volume,  by  Professor  Henry  Morley. 


Limp  cloth  binding,  gold  top,  illuminated  title 

and  frontispiece 35  eta. 

Paste-grain  roan,  flexible,  gold  top    ...  50  cts. 

t.  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

3.  Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

3.  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  -••n«*jtMM 

4.  As  You  Like  It. 

5.  Comedy  of  Errors. 
f>.  Coriolanus. 

7.  Cymbeline. 

8.  Hamlet. 

9.  Julius  Ctesar. 

10.  King  Henry  IV.    (Part  I.) 

1.  King  Henry  IV.    (Part  II.) 

2.  King  Henry  V. 

3.  King  Henry  VI.    (Part  I.) 

4.  King  Henry  VI.    (Part  II.) 

5.  King  Henry  VI.    (Part  III.) 

6.  King  Henry  VIII. 

7.  King  John. 

8.  King  Lear. 

9.  King  Richard  II. 

0.  King  Richard  III. 

1.  Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

2.  Macbeth. 

3.  Measure  for  Measure. 

4.  Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

5.  Othello. 

6.  Pericles. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

29.  The  Merry  Wires  of  Windsor. 

30.  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

31.  The  Tempest. 

32.  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

33.  The  Winter's  Tale. 

34.  Timon  of  Athens. 

35.  Titus  Andronicus. 

36.  Troilus  and  Cressida. 

37.  Twelfth  Night. 

38.  Venus  and  Adonis  and  Lucrece. 

39.  Sonnets,  Passionate  Pilgrim,  Etc. 


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